


Health to the company

by sexyghostanon (DemonQueen666)



Category: A Christmas Carol (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 171,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonQueen666/pseuds/sexyghostanon
Summary: If forgiveness and redemption are not the same, and if the opportunity for redemption isn’t about what one deserves - in that case then, what is happiness? What is love?Follow what happened right after the story ended: the events of Scrooge’s year, until next Christmas.
Comments: 49
Kudos: 47





	1. Light as a Feather

_His hands were busy with his garments all this time: turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance._

_"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoön of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world. Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!" - Stave Five: The End of It_

Christmas Day, 1843, was a goodly day for much of London.

The day could’ve been colder, the snow could’ve fallen more heavily. Most would agree on that one day, that very special day towards the end of December, whatsoever fates held sway over seasons had provided the right combination. Picturesque for holiday cheer and coziness – but far from the true unpleasantness winter in England could bring.

It might even be remarked it appeared something like the happy ending out of a storybook.

Of course, these things made it still far from perfect – ‘perfect’ was something unachievable in reality. Those wanting something to complain about (be it the chill in the air; the smog even the snow could not defeat; the inconvenience of ice thick on the ground) certainly could.  
  
Yet where finding things to _complain_ about was never much chore for Ebenezer Scrooge – on this day he found not the single inclination to utter complaint at all.

“Merry Christmas,” he offered in sincerity to every passerby he met eyes with.

Never mind where some smiled in return, others gave only a nod; quickly looking away nervously from the man walking the street without hat and only a muffler thrown on as practical outerwear to his housecoat. He didn’t care.

It was a marvel to him. That those two words could fly with such _ease_ – eagerness, even! - from his lips. When far back as he could remember he would’ve rather choked than made the attempt. The best he could’ve managed was a sarcastic sneer, even then with taste of such acid on those words it would’ve burned at the inside of his mouth. To think only yesterday-

 _Had_ it only been yesterday? It hardly seemed possible. Of everything fantastical he’d experienced, somehow that might’ve just been the most astonishing – that he’d done it all in one night.

It felt like he’d lived a lifetime: but indeed, he supposed he had. He’d re-lived his own life, and the intimacies of otherwise hidden lives of those around him, and a part of what life might be yet to come too.

The common metaphor would be to say it felt as if he’d been reborn. He supposed that fit, taken from more literal examination of the phrase. He felt raw and uncertain, as breathless with anticipation as he was overwhelmed by all sensation that seemed made new.

The numbness of his soul had spread through the years like a cancer, deadening him to more than awareness of his fellow man. Cutting him off from pleasure as it kept him safe from pain. Now it came flooding back, the sights and sounds and scents of the city, filling him with every breath as winter wind moved across his skin.

It didn’t precisely fill him with joy, this awareness of the stiffness of bones and the tingle in his fingertips. But it was _different_ – so beautifully, preciously different! His bitterness had been peeled from him like the skin of a particularly tough fruit, and if the process had scraped as much as it freed him he would accept it all in hand.

He felt anything but _innocent,_ now. And yet, he did feel so much lighter. No, he may not have been made over anew again, but he had been made alive.

Wonderfully, gratefully _alive._

Mortal life however came with limitation, namely costs that had to be paid to its upkeep. The Cratchit house was neighborhood a good walk from his own, a distance that’d been easily ignored when he took it at desperate sprint.

And if it wasn’t close to day’s end yet, the afternoon wasn’t about to grow any warmer. The tips of his ears and nose stung; beginnings of hunger starting to gnaw in the pit of his stomach. The snow had soaked damp through his shoes.

 _Appears I was right after all, about how I would be needing thicker socks_ , Scrooge thought wryly as he fisted hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

Ah well. It would take more than a long walk in the cold to make him hate this happy day.

But he was looking forward to getting home and changing into his slippers in front of a fire. Drinking that toast he’d told a very bewildered Cratchit clan he intended to make, and perhaps finding what poor Christmas supper could be assembled inside his house.

“Merry Christmas, sir!”  
  
The called greeting was unmistakably in the voice of a child, with note somewhat plaintive. He paused walking to turn his head.

Not one child crouched next to the stone wall beside the path, but two: barely distinguishable as a boy and a girl, probably neither above age of ten, beneath layers of bundling. A strange lump in his throat briefly formed – _you counted everything but the lives, you looked right through but never saw_ – and he made the effort not just to look this time but to _see_.

Limp hair beneath caps and smudges of dirt on freckled noses, the obviously secondhand state of their clothing, marked them as belonging to the lower classes. But their skin was rosy, healthy enough beneath what was brought on by the cold, and those clothes though worn had been mended again and again with effort and care. So, poor but not desperate – loved and protected, if nothing else.

A hitch eased from within him, in relief. He’d been shown so much poverty, so much lonely despair. And he was aware he’d much yet to see, as he began to try mending the damage he’d wrought on the world.

But let it begin tomorrow – surely, he could be spared that much. Let him be confronted with no more of it, today.

The two children had a sameness about them that hinted at sister and brother. They huddled not directly together but against a box between them, faded words on the side advertising it’d once been packaging for laundry soap.

“What have you got there?” He leaned forward, curiously. “…Oh!”

Kittens, it would appear. Half a dozen, each a different color; too chilled to mew, squirming together in tattered flannel scraps.

Poor things. It took little effort to feel sympathy for _them_ ; the only difference now he’d less compunction about openly expressing it on his face.

“Would you like one, sir?” the girl piped up. He glanced at her.

“What - you’re giving them away?”

The children exchanged a look. The boy mumbled from where his thumb had crept into his mouth.

“Haven’t a choice, sir.”

“Father only got the one cat to be a mouser,” his sister elaborated. “He was cross enough when she came to bear by the hearth. Now they’ve weaned off her, he’s sick of them underfoot, crying and playing about.”

“He says if they’re not gone by New Year’s,” the boy added, “he’s going to take them to be drowned.”

Scrooge stared down at the contents of the box. There was another, different, lump in his throat.

Most might dismiss it as a child’s exaggeration – scarcely willing to believe a father would say such a thing, on Christmas day of all days.

But he knew well how cruel in such matters a father could potentially be.

A short time later he was to be found not home as previously anticipated, but waiting in line at maybe the only dried goods grocer still open on the holiday - balancing the large flat box containing six kittens in his arms.

He’d given them his muffler, to try getting them warmer. The occasional ‘meow’ now emitting from the box hopefully meant success.

It was frustrating but not surprising, given the fecklessness of human nature, he was far from the only person to find themselves with belated needs on Christmas day. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had to queue for anything himself, and he was doing his level best to practice patience.

He’d moved from counting clouds overhead to how many cobblestones had been swept clear in the street, when he became aware the small boy in front of him in line kept staring at him.

“Hello,” he tried, tentatively, feeling accomplished when with this one word he didn’t terrify the child.

“Were those your Christmas present?”

The boy nodded up at the box. Evidently he’d heard the meowing.

The question took him aback for a pause.

“Well…I suppose now they are,” he concluded.

“That’s lucky.” The boy pouted. “I asked for a puppy, but I was told ‘no’.”

“Perhaps next year?”

“But I don’t want to wait a whole _year_. That will be forever and ever away!”

He had to smile at that. The pure innocence of that response.

He was also pointedly trying not to look too hard at circumstance, let reality overwhelm him to the point of triggering a sort of incredulous fit: _him_ , having a casual even _friendly_ conversation with a stranger, let alone a child, and about Christmas presents, on Christmas day.

“Yes. One might suppose that a year could seem like an eternity, when there’s no way of knowing what the future might hold,” he pondered aloud. “In particular, at this time of the year, with the feeling of new beginnings that it’s been found to imply.”

The boy opened his mouth to speak when his mother tugged his arm.

“Leave that man alone.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Scrooge reassured her.

The deeply suspicious frown she shot as she pulled her son closer to her side conveyed that, far as she was concerned, it was _not_ all right; and not for the reason he’d assumed.

He tried not to fidget, prickling with belated awkwardness. It wasn’t as if he could discretely move away.

He hunched a little around the box and patted one of the kittens with a fingertip, looking to not be aware he might still be getting glared at furtively.

A moment passed, then another – and then he had the nagging sense that he _was_ being stared at. But from another direction.

He looked up.

Standing at the edge of the pavement was a familiar, younger man.

“Fred!” he exclaimed, scarcely able to believe the coincidence.

“ _Uncle_.” His nephew blinked free of his stupor. He hurried closer. “It _is_ you! I was certain I had to be seeing things!”

“I’m sure you aren’t the only one, today,” he had to admit.

Standing nearer made Fred’s bemusement incredibly, and increasingly, palpable.

“Why, look at you, Uncle Ebenezer - where’s your hat? Where’re your gloves? Is that a _housecoat?_ Wh-what in the world are you doing outside, dressed like that?”

“Oh, well, I - I had to rush out in a hurry, to...prevent an accident.” He opted for partial truth. “And I...haven’t had chance to get home again, just yet.”

Fred was speechless, confused, overall appearing as if he didn’t know if he should laugh or be afraid.

The euphoria soaking Scrooge from the inside to out was beginning to flake and crumble as he was forced to acknowledge the sheer outlandishness of his current situation.

“...I’ve had a strange morning, Fred,” he remarked.

“Yes, I can see that.” His nephew recovered enough to try reacting more gamely. “What’s that? Are those...kittens?”

“I happened upon a pair of urchins who were trying to find homes for them. Given the alternative was they were to be disposed of - _inhumanely_ \- I was all too glad to take them in.”

Fred was back to looking bemused again.

“You...you were?”

The best way to describe his nephew’s expression was he was staring as if he wondered who he was actually looking at.

 _Such a very good question, Fred,_ he thought _. Unfortunately, I now know the answer._

His past sins, his poor choices; the things he’d turned a blind eye to; the future he’d never cared to plan for that’d been carved by indifferent misdeeds. He’d been shown it all, bright and clear. A mirror more unflinching than any mortal would ever own.

He knew it was a waste of time to be defined by regret. Still, he couldn’t help some - and right now he recalled his cutting words the day before, and his heart sank.

“I’ve always had a soft spot for animals, actually,” he said, more quietly. “One of...the few soft spots I permitted to remain. Although, even then I hid it well.”

He couldn’t meet Fred’s gaze, not entirely.

Fred, on the other hand, had an almost touched look of dawning surprise.

“I had no idea,” he managed.

Scrooge almost, almost laughed. It would’ve been a sad sound had it managed to form.

“Yes. There’s rather a lot about me you don’t know, I’m certain. I did make sure of that. Didn’t I?”

Fred’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, slightly.

Scrooge’s gaze drifted as his thoughts stuttered and raced by turns. There were many things he wanted to say.

But it had been about what _he_ wanted for so long. So - what did he _need_ to say?

“You know,” he began carefully, “last night, I had…a dream. About your mother.”

It hurt, to turn and look at Fred fully. He made it happen all the same.

“It had been years since I let myself properly remember. What it was like, once. What _she_ was like.”

Though it was bittersweet, he had to smile. “She was ever the big sister. Always looking out for me. Even in…even in ways I never realized, at the time.”

He caught his breath.

“In that respect, you are very much her son,” he said resolutely – hoping it came across as the compliment it was meant to be.

He didn’t expect – didn’t want – Fred to respond.

He’d nothing to worry about; though Fred moved his head, dazedly, lips slightly parted, he didn’t make a sound.

“Year after year, you have kept…trying. For what reason I was never able to comprehend. But that doesn’t matter, it’s no excuse for what I…you asked me to spend the holiday with you, and your family. You made one…last, heartfelt plea. In response, I went out of my way to be rude. No,” he corrected, “not only rude – _cruel_. Deliberately, selfishly so.”

And for what? Had it made him happier, even for a moment?

No – it had not.

“Fred, I am so sorry for the things that I said.” He grimaced. “I know that I can’t take back any of it. That I can’t undo the wasted years. But I shouldn’t have treated you that way, and I’m sorry. You deserve to know that much.”

He gulped, holding the box tighter to his chest as he nodded to himself.

“There. It’s been said. Yes. Even if – as you observed – we never see each other again in this life, what needs saying has been said.”

He felt better for doing that. Even if it had taken something out of him.

He felt relieved. If he wasn’t happy how things had gone overall between him and his last remaining link to his sister, in this now he could be satisfied.

There was a tense, brittle pause.

And then Fred made a strangled indescribable sound. Hands half-heartedly waving in a flutter.

“Wait,” he gasped. “Look, one – one thing at a time. Please!” Pleading for something concrete, something to make sense: “Uncle – what are you even _doing_ here?”

He gestured with one hand: he meant in the most literal, immediate sense, Scrooge realized.

“Oh, I-” He pointed between the kittens and the storefront. “I haven’t a thing for them to eat at my house. Not much at all, really. Except…congealed bits of leftover gruel and half a bottle bitter sherry. That would hardly do, for kittens.”

“No. Not at all.” Fred eyed the contents of the box, now mostly dozing. “But, there’s not much of anything you’re going to be able to get here either, you realize? What did you expect? Gravy mix, dry cereal, licorice drops…”

He breathed out in annoyance, awareness of his own foolishness, realizing his nephew was right.

“In my defense it’s been some years since I’ve done my own shopping,” he offered, sourly.

“I’m sure. But, if I had to guess,” Fred indicated the housecoat, “it doesn’t look as if you’ve got your wallet on you. How were you intending to pay for whatever you purchased?”

He frowned, not following the question. He’d never had slightest problem getting a halfway respectable shop to extend him credit.

“I was going to sign a bill of sale, to be sent to me later on at-”

“ _Uncle_ ,” Fred met his impatient distractedness with a tone that would’ve done his late mother proud for how it permitted absolutely no argument, “you _aren’t wearing a hat.”_

No, it at last sunk in, he wasn’t – in a day and age when that left him shockingly underdressed to be seen outside, well, just about anywhere.

“Now, I am sorry, but I don’t know how else to put it – have you the slightest idea how alarming you look?”

He was on verge of leaving the line anyway but action was decided for him by his nephew putting arm around his shoulders, hustling him down the pavement with a polite no-nonsense air.

It was unlikely he’d have dared to do as much only yesterday. Scrooge was too wholly startled to be offended, unable to formulate response in time, numbly meandering along.

“Come on, then - we’ll walk the direction of your house as we talk, at least.”

Fred’s laughter seemed to be operating as defense mechanism now. He rubbed his uncle on the upper arms.

“How long have you been standing out here? You must be chilled to the bone!”

“I’m fine.” He brushed him off. “It’s nothing. I’m…used to the cold.”

That sentence trailed off in tired sigh, words landing with unintended meaning.

The concern writ heavy in every line of Fred’s face as he eyed him, caused Scrooge to actually consider: would he _mind_ that much, getting carted off to Bedlam?

Certainly it would make things far easier, taking every decision out of his hands…

No. That was ridiculous. As if he’d be able to stand it. Anyway, since when had he ever opted for an easy path when there was work to be done?

Shutting eyes, he shook his head, seeking clarity. One thing at a time, indeed.

“But what is to be done about them?” he demanded, pointing to the kittens, stubbornness summoned from its deep well. “Truly, something has to be arranged.”

“Oh, a thought comes to me!” Fred looked pleased with himself: “There must be a spare bottle of milk at my house somewhere I can have sent over. I’m sure of it. The missus always stocks up on too much of anything, before she lets anyone be invited for dinner.” He clapped gloved hands together, breath coming in a puff. “She could give lessons in the fine art of being over-prepared.”

“You’re sure?” He hesitated to accept; such a little thing - but habits of a lifetime died hard.

“Of course! Why, it’s no trouble at all. We can’t have your new charges going hungry on their first day.”

“But, I mean, you really are certain? You-”

Whatever Scrooge had been about to say derailed completely, as he’d a belated realization.

“Wait – _dinner_.” He gestured. “We’ve covered what _I_ am doing here, but what about you? Why are _you_ wandering out here? You should be home; you should be…you’re supposed to be with your friends, and loved ones, enjoying your celebrations-”

“It’s all right!” Fred interrupted, reassuring. “It’s all fine! I’m not missing out on anything. The guests have come and gone. It’s always morning visits, at our household on Christmas – anyone making the rounds to see us knows.” He shrugged.

“We’ve had our usual supper. Right now my children are either playing with their presents or napping. Emilia is relaxing, much as she ever does.” A chuckle. “And I wanted a walk, to get some air and help with digestion.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

That did make sense, he supposed. It was late afternoon already. Anyone who planned on going out in the cold would’ve wanted it done earlier in the day. The Cratchit household had been sitting down to their meal when he’d burst in on them, and that’d been awhile before.

“I’m glad that I did,” Fred remarked. “Otherwise I might’ve never seen you. I thought of turning back nearly a block before.” With faint optimism, he smiled. “It’s almost as if something wanted to make sure we had the chance to run into each other.”

Was he testing the waters on purpose? His uncle put no stock in the concept of fate, let alone a benevolent or generous one. That he knew very well.

But, that had been yesterday.

“Yes. Perhaps there was.” He had to smile himself. “Stranger things have, indeed, been known to happen from time to time.”

Fred was watching him with a different intensity than the concern and confusion of before. His eyes had a gleam to them - Scrooge was able to identify it after a moment: it was hope.

Perhaps he should’ve anticipated, but he found himself completely unprepared when Fred opened his mouth, all eagerness, and spoke:

“You know, it’d won’t be getting dark for a bit yet. You could still stop by. You’ll want to get home and change first, obviously. But after that, we could have drinks. And, there’s still the pudding to be done!”

There was nothing wrong, Scrooge knew, with his ears or his senses.

Yet he stared at Fred and struggled to process what was being offered him.

He had forgotten how to want things, he supposed. But this part, he found he did remember: wanting something so badly, being certain it couldn’t be possible.

“You’d still ask me again, even with the way I’ve behaved? After how I…” He swallowed. “I’d have th-thought...the last time, you said-”

“Oh, _Uncle_ ,” Fred responded gently, acting surprised it needed to be said. His expression bearing no admonishment, only sympathy. “When I said there would be no more invitations, it was because it seemed like nothing would ever change.”

He looked down briefly, smile going sad.

“My wife got tired of tales of my repeated rejection, I suppose. It was the one thing she asked for this year on her birthday: that I would promise her that this year, it would be the last ‘no’ from you at Christmas I would ever put myself in position to hear.”

Scrooge wondered: would he really have kept coming around every Christmas with open hand, if left to his own devices? For however many years his uncle had left?

Could one person contain so much feeling they could keep trying in such a way? Fred wasn’t precisely a young man anymore - surely life had knocked him aback a few turns by now. Hadn't he been hardened at all, that he could keep on determined to be nothing but generous and happy?

Even knowing so much about his life’s philosophy had been wrong until this point, he could scarcely believe it. It seemed miraculous.

Fred went on in earnest, “If you were to change your mind however, of course we’d be happy to have you.” As if aware how doubtful that sentiment presented itself, he emphasized, “I know _I_ for one would be very glad of it.”

Now it was Scrooge’s turn to offer a sad smile. With little other recourse he fell back on reason, facts.

“I don’t even remember how long you’ve been married.”

“Oh, it’s...it’s thirteen years now, it’s been,” Fred responded thoughtfully, as if that lack of knowledge was unexceptional.

Scrooge had yet another lump in his throat, mouth threatening to go dry as he tried again.

“But I - your children who, as you rightly pointed out yesterday, I have never seen; I don’t even know how many you _have_.”

Even as he said it however he caught himself, something surfacing in his thoughts.

“No,” he blinked quickly, remarking to himself, “I do know this, actually. I don’t know how I remember it, but I do. _Four_. You’ve four children.”

“Yes,” Fred confirmed.

It seemed the counting of things was so ingrained in him he carried on even when he didn’t remember doing it. “And, it’s - boy, girl - and then boy, girl again,” he recalled with some conviction.

“Yes, that’s right!”

Was Fred actually cheered that his uncle, who’d lived within easy visiting distance his children’s entire lives, could vaguely identify how many there were supposed to be?

He made one last attempt to get through to him, declaring and apologizing all at once, “But I haven’t the slightest idea as to their names or what their ages are.”

He had been invited to the christenings. He had a memory of dropping a gilded invitation envelope into the office wastebasket, unopened, as from around the corner Bob Cratchit had watched in incredulous silence.

Marley had shifted in his chair, rolling his eyes. _‘If you’re going to do that, might as well throw it into the fire and get use out of good paper.’_

 _‘Ah, a good point,’_ had been his clipped response, pretending to miss the sarcasm.

With a handkerchief he’d picked it up again and proceeded to feed it past the grate - Cratchit stared, and Jacob had tipped his head back and sneeringly laughed; always finding amusement wherever he could.

But in the present Fred treated the statement as if it were inquiry, a normal one at that, as he tucked hands into his pockets.

“Well our eldest is twelve, his name is Peter. Next is Mathilde, who’s eleven. Frederick,” he grinned a bit; “we call him Ricky, he’s just turned nine. And the last, she’s six,” he paused, “her name is Charlotte.”

That struck him, as Fred had known it would. “Charlotte,” he echoed softly.

“Yes. Named after my mother,” Fred confirmed, unnecessarily. “We do call her Lottie from time to time, but only on occasion. I’m sure she wouldn’t even notice if you referred to her only as ‘Charlotte’.” He went on, musing, “She doesn’t resemble my mother, much. Though Mathilde does, maybe, a little. So you may wish to prepare yourself, if you think it would be affecting.”

“You are talking as if you expect I should get to see your children regularly,” he said, dubious. “That I should come to have a presence in their lives. And, in yours.”

That one successful Christmas visit would lead into more and more, any time of the year. The progression so immediate and natural it should be taken for granted.

“I can’t think of any reason why it shouldn’t be so,” Fred protested. There it was again, that bright-eyed and sympathetic look. “Why, Uncle Ebenezer - you _are_ family, after all!”

 _Family_. The word struck against something inside him only recently pulled loose.

It made him picture a confident girl who’d spent years waiting for a brother too broken to reach back - and a series of dancing shadows on a wall, images of a loving happiness that’d never been permitted to exist.

“Fred,” he held the box even tighter, “I don’t even know what to say. I…”

He was touched - moved. Indescribably so. That much was obvious to him; he distantly hoped to Fred as well. But-

“I can’t,” he said.

Fred’s face fell in open disbelief. “Uncle-”

One hand half-raised, as if he’d reach for him. In response Scrooge pulled back a step, firmly shaking his head.

“No. No, I can’t. I’m sorry, Fred. Really, truly I am. But I can’t. Not today. I...it’s just too much.”

The events of the past - one night? Three days? - came upon him like a thunderclap.

In a country churchyard in Wales he had felt the touch of his long-gone sister’s hand, sitting next to her as inside behind them people sang in memorial for the loved ones his greed had wrenched away years before. He’d seen two visions of tragic Christmases that for Bob and Mary Cratchit would hopefully never come. He had gone from berating himself that he could still imagine the voice of his dead friend, to having empirical evidence that the man’s soul was at last at peace.

And now he could, for the first time, step over the threshold of his only nephew’s house, to share in warmth and cheery affection that he’d avoided for years?

Uncomfortable, overwhelming – more so when the pins and needles of the spirit fresh within him reminded him it was nothing he had earned. Quite possibly more than he would ever deserve.

“No,” he repeated, more resolute; resigned, “not today. I...I simply can’t.”

‘Disappointment’ was too mild a word for the expression on his nephew’s face.

“Oh,” he managed. “All right. If that’s your choice. I understand.”

That last was a lie, clearly - he would never understand. They were too far different men.

“Another day, perhaps,” Scrooge went - heart beating fast; feeling like he was watching from the outside, disbelieving he had the nerve. “Christmas, particularly this Christmas, it’s too much for me, but. Ask me for another day and I’ll gladly say ‘yes’.”

“All right,” Fred went numbly, misunderstanding. “Yes, of course.”

He drew a breath and cleared his throat.

“ _Fred_ ,” he stressed, in that stern ‘ _your elder relative is talking to you so pay attention’_ tone he’d never used before and was astonished he was somehow generating, “ask me again. Invite me for another day, another time...and I will say ‘yes’.”

Realization dawned on Fred’s face by degrees, brightening, even as now it was his turn to apparently not be sure if he should believe what he was hearing.

“Sometime after the New Year, perhaps? This week would be too soon, Emilia will want to recover from the holiday but - next Thursday? You could come and join us for dinner.”

“Yes.” How his voice was more than whisper, he wasn’t sure. “I would like that very much.”

Fred’s smile was wide but the underside of his eyes shone.

Scrooge attended to the kittens again, to give him the space to get ahold of himself. Because if Fred actually started crying, or anything even close, he hadn’t any idea what he might do.

“Oh,” Fred caught his breath, rubbing at one eye, “wonderful. That’s - _wonderful_. I...Uncle, you’ve no idea how glad-”

“No, no.” Again he shook his head, not wanting to hear gratitude. “Perhaps...get it in writing? Send a formal card to my address so I can respond. That way your wife might actually believe you, and not think you were hallucinating this exchange.”

He didn’t know if he was saying that as a joke, or serious, or somehow both.

From the way he nodded, Fred seemed to feel the same.

“Right, yes. And, you’re sure that Thursday will work for you? Because if another night would be better-”

“It won’t be a problem. It’s not as if I’ve a busy social calendar.” He shrugged and half-smiled. “And my time should become even freer, soon enough. I’m shutting the business down.”

“You...you _are?_ You’re retiring? Truly?”

“Retiring…? Oh, yes: I suppose it _could_ be called that, couldn’t it.” He mused it over, giving succinct nod in acceptance. “Yes. Retiring. It won’t happen overnight - there’s much to untangle first. But, as there will no longer be any active trading going, that would mean my hours will be more...flexible, if necessary. So.”

“Well, that’s...that’s…” Maybe this was one surprise too many for even Fred to handle. “I mean...congratulations, Uncle! I’m sure after all these years it’s well-earned.”

He winced, because how else should he react to that?

He _had_ worked hard, that was true. Possibly a shame for the greater good he hadn’t been a lazier man.

“Ah, thank you,” he mumbled. Another bout of fidgeting, of not knowing what to say.

Fred was staring again. This time, there seemed to be a great consternation gathering in his face.

“What?”

“It...it’s only…” Fred inhaled, bracing himself. “There’s no way around it, I have to ask. Uncle Ebenezer, are you...are you _all right_?”

 _‘All right’_ was said with significance that clearly meant something more. There was incredibly somber tension in Fred’s expression as he waited for an answer.

It took Scrooge a moment to decipher.

“I...oh.” Puzzlement vanished. “Oh! You are wondering if I am _dying!_ ”

Maybe he shouldn’t have exclaimed that so casually. Fred took it in stride.

“Well you can’t really blame me for thinking it, I feel...I mean, with the...everything.”

He did have a fair point. The criteria were certainly there.

Scrooge realized he might get this reaction more than once in the days to come, and felt somewhat vexed.

“No – no, I am fine,” he insisted. “Well, I don’t see my physician for another few months yet, but – far as I’m aware, my health is the same it’s been for years now. You can never plan for the calamities of life, true. But I’ve had no _news_ of the type you’re referring to; I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.”

There had been a headstone, in the future yet to come, and there’d been a date on it. And of course he had noticed, because a date was a number.

But he didn’t care. He would focus on the immediate future, what he knew he’d power to change.

And today was today. And it was still Christmas.

Fred exhaled, pressing hand over his heart. “Oh, thank God,” he uttered in relief. “For a moment there, I was afraid…well. Better not to even articulate it.” He grinned, again; looking giddy as a schoolboy. “So, we will be seeing you next Thursday, then!”

“Yes.” He couldn’t manage the same enthusiasm – his face was sorely out of practice – but he made an attempt. “For now, however, we should probably be heading our separate ways. I’m sure your family is missing you.”

“Oh, well – actually, hang on.” Fred pulled off his overcoat and came to drape it across his uncle’s shoulders. “There now, that’s better.”

“Oh no, really,” he started to protest, “I’ll be fine – it’s only a few more blocks-”

“Now, now! If you catch cold because you’re standing out here talking to me and I did nothing, my mother would likely come back to haunt me.” Fred joked, “And the last thing anyone needs at Christmastime is ghosts!”

Scrooge gave a chuckle, almost more a wheeze.

When was the last time he’d _laughed?_ But if only to himself, for reasons he could never explain, this was genuinely amusing.

“You wouldn’t think so, would you?”

Luckily Fred wasn’t questioning that reaction too hard. “You can send the coat back with whatever messenger I have run over with the milk and the note.”

“All right, fine then.” Inspiration striking, he gestured to the box: “You know, perhaps you could take one – as a present to the children?” Soon as Fred looked closer, he reflexively blocked a corner with his hand. “Not the white one, though. I’ve already named him.”

“Oh, then of course not that one.” Fred considered, and then picked up the black and brown tabby. “Here! I rather like the look of this fellow. Yes; I’m sure my rascals will adore him.”

He put the kitten inside his waistcoat, tucking him in carefully as he could, and in the process unknowingly rising even further in his uncle’s affections.

He gave Scrooge a parting pat on the shoulder and started to make way down the pavement. Turning back, he tipped his hat in farewell – and paused.

“Good afternoon, Uncle.”

Said with a wryness, having chosen it appeared to not press his luck at the last second.

But Scrooge shook his head at him in admonishment. He met his nephew’s gaze fully as he gave him a true smile.

“Merry Christmas to you, Fred.”

“Merry Christmas, Uncle Ebenezer,” came the eager reply, and after one final wave they went their separate paths.

Finally home, not much later, Scrooge locked the door behind him and stood there a moment, leaning back as he caught his breath.

Physically he was exhausted. But sleep was impossible at present. He was far too worked up, practically jittery with emotion.

He busied himself dragging the closest thing to a comfortable throw rug he had to the hearthside in his bedchamber, where he built up the fire until it crackled.

Carefully he tilted the soap box until the contents tumbled free, reinvigorated enough between their nap and the warmth to begin bounding around.

Quickly he was reminded why the phrase ‘herding cats’ existed.

Five sets of tiny claws had worried unsalvageable patches in his muffler, but that was all right. His housecoat was hung by the fire to dry, his shoes exchanged for socks and slippers. He sat on the floor and played with the kittens until he heard a knock on his door.

The sound made him tense; given recent events he felt he couldn’t be blamed if his first instinct was alarm. But he recalled this was expected and - hopefully - very different circumstance.

Pulling housecoat back on, he went to answer the door. And looked down - far down, because if Fred had intended to find the smallest possible errand boy out working in London on Christmas day, well. He’d succeeded with aplomb.

“Are you Mr. Scrooge, sir?” the boy asked loudly, as if intentionally compensating.

“More or less,” he found himself saying in reply.

Indifferent to his murmuring, the boy thrust toward him a milk bottle in one hand, an envelope in the other.

Both hands were wrapped in mittens much too big, swallowing them up - really, the runner’s appearance was bizarrely comical. Between an oversized brimmed cap and loops of heavy woolen scarf, his face was invisible save for a few errant strands of straw-colored hair and a pair of wide blue eyes. It gave the impression, almost, of being watched from a shadowy corner by some canny inhuman creature.

Scrooge tried blinking away mental cobwebs of what must’ve been a combination of fancy and fatigue.

“Oh - I’ll want to answer this right away,” he realized aloud, looking at the envelope as he took both items. “Will you wait a few minutes so that I might send it back?”

It was impressive how with eyes alone the boy strongly got across the incensed displeasure the suggestion invoked. No doubt he could be half-way across town and making more money, or tucked by the fire at his own home, in the time he expected to linger with little hope of worthwhile reward.

“You can wait inside,” Scrooge quickly offered. “There’s a nice fire going, upstairs. And, some kittens you may play with, if you like. And I will tip you…half a crown.”

“Half a _crown?_ ” Those wide eyes managed to grow far wider.

“Yes, I-”

He sidestepped backwards as he’d a near-miss being run over by the small figure bolting inside and up the stairs like a shot.

“Well then. It would appear we’ve an agreement,” he observed to his now-empty stoop.

The invitation card, he saw upon opening, was of the pre-prepared sort. Actual message jotted in what could only be Fred’s hand; bold strokes, somewhat untidy.

The rest of the card however must’ve been done up and set aside by his wife - formal politeness written out with loops too stern to be called elegant, blank spaces for date and time left evenly as if by a ruler. It was reminiscent of those flower gardens country widows sometimes grew, every plant so strictly tended to loveliness and laid out in order the whole display became uncanny.

Something almost gave him serious pause, about that handwriting. Scrooge recalled it was at _her_ bidding that Fred would’ve cut off his Christmas invitations, and couldn’t shake the sense he was about to plan a venture into enemy territory.

He wrote his response nonetheless, trying to put as much hopeful affection as he could into the anticipated sentences - barely managing to avoid leaving smudges as he stalled and struggled, considering how inexperienced he was with affection of any kind.

“There,” he said aloud, once finished - he was battling nervousness, silly as that was.

But it was done, the envelope sealed. The only thing that could change now was if he lost his head entirely in panic and tore up the card.

Now the remaining thing was to tip his messenger.

He didn’t keep much coinage, or really much in the way of ready money at all, sitting about. He’d claimed it was in fear of house-breakers.

 _‘No one’s ever gonna dare try breaking into your house to rob_ you _, Scrooge,’_ had been Marley’s ever-ready retort. _‘They’d be too afraid of coming away with a nasty hex.’_

Typically his response to that had been equally cutting, but he found he didn’t regret it much now. That’d always been the way, between them - insult serving as cover for the genuine attachment neither man wanted to acknowledge existed.

Stuffed into a corner of the bookcase nearest his bedroom was a glass bottle where he dropped change from his pockets at the end of the day, on occasion he found any. Seeing as he’d never take them out again there was a motherload inside - the coins sticky with dust as he fumbled with some frustration to retrieve the required payment.

The boy was more than content to wait, having gotten comfortable in Scrooge’s armchair.

He kicked his feet, having tracked all the snow from his boots onto the rug, distracting himself with the litter tumbling in circles nearby.

There was a faint yowl, and Scrooge’s head jerked up as he witnessed him tugging the tail of one of the kittens.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he said sharply, sorely tempted to knock off an entire shilling. “Can’t you tell she doesn't like it?”

“Sorry,” was delivered in a not entirely repentant tone, but he let the kitten go.

Scrooge forced himself to breathe, and also to remember that children could be indifferently cruel at times - and he was perhaps in no position to judge that particular trait too harshly.

“A bit of advice, young man, from voice of experience,” he told him: “As you go through this life, try to avoid causing pain to anything that you know you’d not yourself appreciate.”

The child said nothing. He’d kept the scarf on, so it was impossible to tell if he frowned or not. The set of those eyes, however, remained unimpressed.

He gave the boy his half-crown, Fred’s coat, and the note. It was only after the runner was off again it occurred to him - his nephew had likely been generous in payment as well, considering he wouldn’t have known what to expect from his uncle.

Ah well. Put it down to the spirit of Christmas charity, he supposed. He could recalculate his future tips tomorrow.

He examined the bottle filled with change. The outside made it seem it’d held figs, at some point. He literally couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten a fig.

With precise carefulness he walked to the middle of one of his empty rooms and dropped the bottle, hard, to the floor. It shattered, sending thick bits of colored glass sliding every direction.

He picked through the pieces, scooping up the coins in fistfuls - he didn’t stop to count.

By now it was really getting dark, and the lamp-lighters would no doubt be late given the day. He changed into boots, coat, hat and gloves and hurried out, before he got stranded in the snow unable to see his own hand in front of his face.

Maybe clerks and men of business could take off for Christmas but tradesmen and factory workers were rarely so lucky, and they needed to eat. It took less than twenty minutes to find the street vendors still wheeling carts about like it was any day in the city.

His pocketfuls of change went far. He carried back some oysters, two hand-pies, a set of hot buns, and a bag of roasted chestnuts. Ensconced back home for the final time that evening, he tucked into the heartiest meal he’d allowed himself in years.

The kittens had a large saucer of milk, what gravy was left from the pies - and he let them have a go at the remaining oysters, after rediscovering he didn’t in fact like oysters particularly much.

The white kitten he caught chewing on one of the leftover shells.

“Erasmus, no,” he scolded, shooing him away.

After his stomach settled he cleaned up, including the glass in the other room. Then he dug around until he found some port stashed away, because he was by now thoroughly sick of the taste of sherry.

“There,” he said after pouring himself a glass, speaking to the kittens, the hearth - the entire room, perhaps. To anyone and anything that might care to be listening. “Now then, as promised-”

He cleared his throat and raised a toast, after thinking carefully over his words.

“To parents, hard-working and protective. To children, full of brightest promise. To every soul living and dead of this earth - be they loved or neglected; forgotten or fondly remembered. To lessons of the past, awareness of the present, and plans of the future.”

He caught his breath, unable to keep from smiling. He couldn’t think when last he’d felt this way. Perhaps never.

“To Christmas,” he finished. “God bless us, every one.”

He drained his glass, with no small amount of satisfaction. Then he stirred the fire down to a safer level, and built a small barricade out of furniture at the top of the stairs so the kittens wouldn’t escape to who knew where during the night.

And after that Ebenezer Scrooge tumbled into bed and into the deepest, soundest sleep of his entire life.


	2. The Surplus Population

_ "I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there." _

_ "Many can't go there; and many would rather die." _

_ "If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides—excuse me—I don't know that." _

_ "But you might know it," observed the gentleman. _

_ "It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!" - Stave One: Marley’s Ghost _

On the night after that Christmas, Ebenezer Scrooge did not dream a single thing. He merely slept, drawn down into slumber as deep as any ocean.

When he came to consciousness the next morning he rolled over on his back, stretched, and had to once again smile. Not only because the wonders from the day before came floating through the haze, but because he felt so refreshed. Though the clock he knew could not be turned backwards, he could almost swear he felt years younger.

Or maybe it was only he felt his proper age - because any who’d seen him the past decade or so would’ve likely put him at older. The manner of his living, the cold and isolation, had dragged at him; body and spirit.

Speaking of clocks: those in his house began to strike. Shifting head against his pillow, he counted along in habit.

“-two, three, four,” he murmured, half-awake.

And then they kept going. His eyes flew open; startled, quizzical.

“...five...”

Still, they kept going. One more.

“...six.”

He sat up abruptly.

“I’m  _ late _ ,” he realized, timidly, in utter disbelief.

He did rapid-fire calculations. If he barely washed, if he skipped shaving, if he dressed swiftly, if he  _ ran _ the city blocks - he would, probably, still make it to the office in the nick of time to open at seven, that being Scrooge and Marley’s official hour to begin business. 

Nevermind the first half of the partnership was known  _ always _ to be there by six, and often as early as five thirty - that was physically impossible, now.

Once, maybe four years ago, there’d been a fire on his street. The pavement had been so blocked by water trucks and workers and witnesses that it’d been impossible to get through. He’d had to pace the floor of his rooms for over an hour, muttering blackly all the while as he forced down a cup of strong tea.

He didn’t run to work, soon as he could get by, but he did walk briskly as possible without making a fool of himself. Still by the time he made it there, it was quarter until seven.

Marley was already in, waiting. When his partner got through the door he practically tackled him.

_ ‘There you are! Where’ve you been? Are you all right? I was going to send Cratchit to your house when he got here, to see if there’d been an accident.’ _

_ ‘Oh, shut up, Jacob,’  _ he’d snapped. He’d assumed at the time he was being made fun of.

Looking back now however, he realized that concern on Marley’s face had been real.

In the present Scrooge sat still in his bed, feeling a strange confused numbness from things having gone so irregular, he couldn’t help thinking the sky should be falling - or at least the houses of Parliament.

But no. He was running late, he’d overslept, and - nothing. The planets kept spinning. There was another lesson for him, surely - no matter how impossible and significant a thing seemed to change, the rest of the world might be so unaffected it would take no notice.

There was no reason he had to rush in, he rationalized - trying to get his heart to stop racing, soothe away the sense of queasy panic. 

Cratchit had given notice. There were no appointments scheduled. No one was  _ supposed _ to come in, save himself. And if he missed an unexpected visitor - well, so what? He was closing shop.

Before yesterday this logic would’ve never sufficed, even if the facts were still true. Before yesterday to even suppose as much, that he could and would  _ dawdle _ away part of his morning, would’ve seemed to him like complete insanity.

“Before yesterday,” he felt compelled to observe, out loud, “there are a  _ lot  _ of things which I now know, that would’ve seemed like complete insanity.”

So he didn’t rush. He washed and shaved and dressed at his usual pace. He even almost succeeded at making himself go about it more leisurely.

He fed the kittens - marveling how far the little explorers made it around the top floor. Erasmus evidently discovered a hidden cubbyhole in the hall Scrooge had no idea existed - luckily he came scampering out soon as the milk was poured, preventing what would’ve been a frenzied search.

He’d uncertain feelings about leaving them alone all day, but it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t on speaking terms with any of his neighbors. He hadn’t gotten around to replacing his maid.

The reminder drew a grimace. That couldn’t be put off any more, he conceded. He might neglect some things longer than most, given he lived alone and his own tidy nature compensated. But already he couldn’t look at the corners of the ground floor too closely or sight of the dust gathering made him itch.

He hated hiring servants. It’d only become harder after Marley died, taking with him the only reliable recommendation source. A double shame, considering he’d gone through five maids since - usually he tolerated the same one at least a year. But somehow they’d just gotten worse and worse.

Although. He had the terribly awkward realization the problem of worsening behavior might not have been on  _ their  _ end.

“One thing at a time,” Scrooge repeated to himself, weakly - suddenly that good night’s sleep about vanished, for he felt tired. His list of amends was getting longer, not shorter.

That last girl - he’d sacked her abruptly, given no reference of character. He could fix  _ that  _ at least. He could write one for her, belatedly. He just had to find her first.

An errand for later in the day, perhaps. He found he was looking forward to accounts and ledgers he was going to spend hours sifting, because it’d guarantee he didn’t have to think about anything else.

As he locked his front door, he paused to run gloved fingertips across the deep crack in the surface of the knocker. An odd smile came across his face, neither happy nor sad.

Another errand, then: find someone to come by and repair it, whenever he’d the chance.

When he reached the office at last he couldn’t keep from pulling his pocket-watch out. 

Nineteen minutes past eight.

He actually felt light-headed, for a moment. Anxiety closing his throat.

“Steady,” he whispered, squeezing eyes shut until it passed, the ground solid beneath his feet again.

He breathed out slowly, almost a whistle, glancing skyward. Nodding as he once more found conviction.

Producing the key he happened to look across the street and noticed a pair of boys leaning against the wall opposite. Clearly watching his office - watching  _ him. _

They were probably locals; plenty of children lived in the buildings around. He never noticed their faces, only the noise they made while they played.

Not sure what else to do he touched the brim of his hat to them in acknowledgement, as he got the door open.

One of the boys smacked the other in the arm.

“I  _ told _ you,” he could be heard to say, in a loud child’s voice, over the sound of a passing horse-cart.

The second boy made a face, pulling a penny from his trouser pocket he handed over.

“I told you he couldn’t be dead,” the first went on, eyeing his loot, smugly triumphant. “He’s too sour to die - preserved him, it’s done, like a pickle!”

Scrooge grasped what was going on, and his face dropped into a too-familiar scowl as he glared at them. The boys instantly fell quiet and ran away.

If any spirit wanted to appear to scold him, he was fully prepared to argue his case. There were limits, after all.

He hung up his hat and coat, set aside his walking stick and leather portfolio. Then rather than go to his desk he simply - stopped.

His office was cold, inside. And darkened, and still – so very quiet. And these things should’ve been obvious, but it all seemed different today. Exactly the same as it’d been for years, but – different today, to him.

He stood in the side corridor between the front room and the semi-private space that for nearly two decades he and Jacob Marley had shared.

His face cast in shadow, he rested a hand against the wall. Looking at the two desks, set facing together; the iced-over windows and the stacked books and the iron safe tucked away.

The clock ticked from the wall. The air fogged when he breathed in and out, softly. There was so much space here, so much – nothing.

_ ‘More and more and wonderful more’ _ , the first Spirit had taunted him, snide. 

It hadn’t been the first blow to land, to crack its way through. But it’d been the first that hit hard, that reverberated solidly when it landed. That direct comparison: the mill of what had been, versus the theatre of what wasn’t.

He’d lived a full life if it were measured in years. If measured in what he’d done with his time, however? There were many things he could’ve accomplished. Many different men he could’ve been – husband, father, brother, benefactor,  _ friend _ .

Instead what he had was an empty office, a small fortune in a safe he’d never intended to spend or enjoy, and numbers upon numbers upon numbers: pounds and debts and percentages, on paper and in his head.

And now it was over and done.

He sighed, gaze shifting to the side. Well; no point in standing feeling sorry for himself. All that’d accomplish was more nothing.

He sat down at his desk, got the books out, got started.

First, easiest: canceling contracts still in progress. Negotiations always took time - it might make some angry, others relieved, but legally speaking there was every right to walk away. Next was the outstanding debt they’d purchased - simplest solution to clear everything. It would be expensive but more than doable, after the assets started being sold.

He was trying not to balance profit, expenditure - but he would still  _ budget _ . If he started hurling shillings out the window perhaps it’d almost be a relief, but it wouldn’t clear his conscience, and it wouldn’t really help anyone. Not to the degree that it could.

He did have a clever mind - he was allowed to know that, still, wasn’t he? Years of experience with figures, markets - an eye for the long term. Perhaps knowledge gained wickedly could be used for good.

He’d worked hard at the grindstone for years amassing what he’d made. Why be less careful in unbuilding it?

Half a dozen letters, ending underhanded deals. A dozen more, and then some, informing various associates they traded with that Scrooge and Marley Investments would be no more.

It would’ve been far more professional to hire a by-the-hour clerk and have the letters recopied. It wasn’t extra expense that prevented him - not this time - but awareness it’d make no difference. When the recipients of these letters read them, they’d be aghast by things other than seeing them in his own handwriting.

He looked at the clock. Far past teatime. His inkwell was almost dry; he’d have to see if the one from Cratchit’s former space had thawed. His fingers were cramping, sore, and covered in smudges.

He sighed, again - hours of work, all he could think how much was to be done still - and got up to wash his hands.

The cold water turned a greyish shade, the cloth coming away greyed also. Trying to shake numbness and stinging from his joints, he discovered a smeared dot on his shirt-cuff.

He scraped at it with a deep frown.

The rag and bone man, many other traders and deliverymen and sellers, had come and gone; he’d kept too preoccupied to count wheels clacking or calls or footsteps. The longer he stood there however feeling annoyance over a single stubborn spot, the more aware he became of noise from outside - the more the walls threatened to close in. As if the small space he’d created around himself wanted to mockingly demonstrate  _ how _ small it was.

He gave up on the inkstain. Rubbing his eyes, he exhaled. 

_ Fresh air, _ he decided.

He needed to go out anyway. One important piece of work absolutely couldn’t wait for another day.

Unlocking the safe, he emptied the contents. Carefully counting every coin and note.

Then he went to the bank and converted most of it into a single cheque.

He’d made sure he had the address of the Cratchit family’s house written down right, beforehand - because he could only find it in person for reasons he’d never explain. Of course Cratchit put in paperwork when he’d been hired, as formality, but Scrooge never looked in ten years because it hadn’t mattered. There’d never been the slightest question of him visiting his employee’s home.

Now he put down the direction, precisely; paid an added fee to have a bank-employed messenger guarantee prompt and accurate delivery. He wasn’t chancing it the slightest, this cheque getting lost.

It was colder than it’d been at Christmas, and it would snow again soon - still he walked slowly, back to the office.

Usually he enjoyed work, much as he ‘enjoyed’ anything, but he wasn’t today. Dealing with his books, the place where he was most comfortable, confident, where he felt he had the most power - now, it was exhausting.

Every sum he’d been proud of shamed him. Between the lines of his ledger he could see suffering faces of men, women and children.

_ What else will you do, if not this _ , he scolded, harsh with himself as he’d been to others:  _ After all, it isn’t as if you’ve anywhere else to be. _

He rounded a corner and spied the long line indicating a stall serving coffee and tea. His pace slowed further as he weighed the reused mugs - often as chipped and stained as his worst imaginings - against the appeal of something warm to drink, not to mention a sandwich.

His hand crept seemingly of its own accord about halfway to his wallet, when a pair of gentlemen walked past. They were deep in conversation and with his head down, face behind his collar, they likely hadn’t even seen him - but he knew them.

This was incredibly lucky, was his thought, because they were people he’d meant to talk to.

“Mr. Hooper! Mr. Thwaites!”

Together they stilled at his voice, heads swiveling to look back. 

The type of recognition in their expressions was not a happy one, though he was prepared for that. He waited patiently there on the pavement for their response.

They exchanged a significant look with each other – the silent communication of business partners – then as one reached a conclusion. Pointedly turning backs to him, they kept walking.

Scrooge stared after them, mouth slightly agape.

There were many negative responses he could probably expect in days to come – some stronger than others.  _ That _ , however, had not been one that’d occurred to him.

And, as he stood there, processing – he concluded it wasn’t one he was willing to accept.

Eyes narrowing, he put hand to his hat to hold it in place and took off after them.

“Excuse me!  _ Excuse me!” _

As he closed in on them Thwaites started - he dug heels into the ground, realizing they were being overtaken and grabbed Hooper by the elbow to make him notice. He seemed almost scared at the prospect of being left behind alone. 

Stopped by his partner, cottoning onto what was happening, Hooper’s eyes went wide. “Good lord!”

Scrooge ended about five strides away because both looked so alarmed it was easy to picture them striking out as reflex if he got closer. They goggled at him as he glared back, incredulous and somewhat incensed.

“Did you actually just  _ cut  _ me?” he demanded.

“Well we  _ tried _ ,” was Thwaite’s retort.

“Yes,” Hooper chimed in, aghast, “we didn’t think you’d come chasing after us like a madman!”

“That’s unbelievable,” Scrooge exclaimed.

“It is,” Hooper agreed snippily.

“I meant what  _ you _ did, not what I – if  _ my _ behavior is out of line, then it is only because it is warranted in response to your own!” 

He huffed. He wasn’t sure if he was out of breath from running or sheer indignation.

“Of all the…the impudent, childish acts to engage – we’re men of business, not – a-and this is a public street, not some card party or - I mean,  _ really, _ ” he searched for something arch to say but better reference failed him; “Who do I look like, Beau Brummell?”

Hooper stared at him flatly. “Certainly not.”

“Yes, exactly,” he snapped back.

Thwaites looked distracted. “Didn’t he die?”

“Who?” Hooper asked.

“Beau Brummell.”

“Oh – yes, a few years ago,” Scrooge remarked absently. “It was in the papers. Penniless, and in an asylum in France.”

“Ha!” Thwaites was darkly amused. “Well, that tracks.”

“I’m sorry,” Hooper went shortly, annoyed, “but what’s Beau Brummell got to do with anything?”

“Nothing! It-” Feeling annoyed himself, Scrooge tried getting back on track. “I still can’t really believe that you did that.”

“Well I still  _ really _ can’t believe you ran after us,” Hooper replied.

“Well obviously I very much wanted to speak with you!” He’d almost caught his breath, now. “There is a certain matter of import I should like to discuss.”

Thwaites was eyeing him warily. “Look, if this is anything to do with the offer I’ve made Bob Cratchit-”

“Yes,” Hooper pounced on that explanation; “Now, whatever your feeling on the matter, we’ve every right in the world to hire a man on with his consent even if he is already employed elsewhere!”

“What? No.” He shook his head, distractedly. “No, this has nothing to do at all with Bob Cratchit. I know he’s leaving, and he knows that I know – we discussed the matter already, when I went to his house yesterday.”

Hooper blinked rapidly, bewildered. “You – what?  _ What? _ ”

“I’m glad that you hired him,” he went on. “It’s high time that his career gained more prospects. And better pay, I’m to understand, which his family can  _ certainly _ use, especially given poor Tim. No, if I am to say anything about your hiring him, it is to say that you should treat him-” 

He stopped, with rueful half-smile.

“Well I would say ‘better than I did’ but, as I think we all know, that is a very low bar.” He hesitated, before going on in seriousness, “Treat him better than you think he deserves. He’s as hard a worker as he is an honest man, and a very valuable employee. You’ll be lucky to have him.”

Thwaites and Hooper had mouths open, temporarily speechless.

“What I wanted to discuss,” he continued, “had to do with what you tried talking to me about, the other night, on Christmas Eve.” Both men bristled at the reminder – he braced himself. “Now, I know at the time, I was rather…dismissive-”

_ “Dismissive?” _ Thwaites repeated, with considerable affront.

“Yes, yes; I know.” He’d winced his eyes almost completely shut. “I know what I said was…terrible, there is no excuse-”

“Oh so you  _ do _ remember what you said,” Hooper cut in, sardonic, “because I honestly wondered if you’d  _ forgotten _ somehow, that you should have the nerve to show your face to us now!”

Thwaites nodded vigorously, on verge of adding his own piece again.

“ _ Please _ ,” Scrooge interjected. “Please…I won’t try to apologize, obviously we’re well past that, I only…I changed my mind.”

“You…you changed your  _ mind? _ ” That was Hooper and Thwaites both, in dubious harmony.

“Yes. About making a donation.” He pointed behind him, the direction he’d been heading. “If you come speak with me at my office – there is a letter I was planning to send you. If you come with me, right now, I can simply hand it to you in person-”

“Oh,” went Thwaites, “ _ oh _ – of course. And by not having to pay the postman, that’ll save yourself another penny!”

It was a deliberately vicious jab, in tone and wording alike.

And unlike the earlier attempt at a snub, it landed - like an icy shock. Humiliation and self-recrimination crawling against his skin.

Scrooge’s arm dropped. He could no longer stand at his full height, he found. Nor entirely keep his gaze upright enough to meet theirs.

“Well done,” he acknowledged in a sigh, quietly. 

Diminished as he was though, he was still determined. 

“Look, gentlemen, whatever else you may think of me - and deserved as that might be - I am serious. You seek money, for your cause, and I am willing to give.” He looked at them, entreating. “Won’t you please come and see me? It shouldn’t take very long.”

“Well…” Hooper hesitated.

Thwaites glanced at him. “Might as well. You really want him hunting after us back at work, also?”

Hooper grimaced with overt displeasure at the thought.

“You do know that I can hear you?” Scrooge had to remark, slightly bitter.

“All right, yes,” Hooper surrendered, speaking for the pair. “Let’s go on, get this over with.”

They went back together. Scrooge hung up his hat and coat again, but the other men kept their outerwear. Making it clear they’d no intention to stay long.

It was just as well - it saved him from offering them any non-existent refreshment.

On his desk he found the letter he’d already sealed and set aside, offering it to them. Hooper, perhaps because he’d the longer reach, plucked it from his hand. He ripped it open as Thwaites leaned and squinted in effort to also read it.

“‘ _ Dear Messrs Thwaites and Hooper _ ’,” the latter began, “‘ _ it is my hope this missive finds you both in good health-’ _ ”

“If you’re in that much of a hurry, you may want to skip toward the end,” Scrooge pointed out. He hadn’t quite anticipated the awkwardness of standing there as they read in front of him.

“‘ _ Though you might for understandable reason believe otherwise I have for years kept abreast of the workings of your fine organization’ _ ...etcetera etcetera…” Hooper began skimming; “‘ _ prior differences of opinion notwithstanding’ _ ...etcetera etcetera… _ ‘most sincere and humblest regrets’ _ ...etcetera etcetera…‘ _ it is my immediate intention therefore to offer up a contribution of-’” _

Hooper cut short, breath failing him, eyes incredibly wide. At his elbow, reading along, Thwaites reacted likewise.

“Is...is that a decimal?” the shorter of the two wheezed, indicating.

“No,” his companion assured him, pointing, “it’s a comma.”

“Ah-!”

Speechless again, they lifted their heads from the letter to stare at Scrooge.

“Yes,” he confirmed quietly. “Not a _ penny _ less. A great many back-payments are included.”

He gave them a moment but they still didn’t say anything, so he kept talking.

“If you would like it delivered all at once, you might have to wait awhile as I move some funds around. But I’ve every intention of making good on the entirety. If you’ve any concerns I will gladly sign whatever documents you like binding me to that.” He gestured to the letter. “Still, if my word remains good for anything - I consider that a pledge.”

“But-” went Hooper.

“But-” echoed Thwaites.

“ _ Why? _ ” the first finally managed.

“I...doubt that I could sufficiently explain. Simply put, something happened that gave me reason to view my actions - recent and less so - in a different manner than previously. No; I am not ill, terminally or otherwise,” he headed that off, holding up a finger - the fact that Hooper had his mouth open and immediately closed it indicating the question had been likely. “But I am already in the process of retiring from my business, and I’ve every intent now on from taking my life in a...different direction.”

Thwaites gave a shrewd frown, pointing: “A...more upward one, perhaps?”

Scrooge’s look in response was tired. “I think that I shall aim for lateral.”

Thwaites raised eyebrows, half-smirking as he nodded; apparently agreeing with that assessment.

Hooper continued staring at the letter, practically chewing his lower lip in thought.

“Well…?” Scrooge prompted - not sure what was to happen next, never having been in this situation before. But clearly they couldn’t keep standing around gawping at one another.

Hooper’s eyes snapped back to focus. He exchanged another look with his partner, then frowned at Scrooge. “We’ll discuss it.”

“You’ll…” He blinked, disbelieving - Hooper obviously meant ‘ _ we’ _ as in, he and Thwaites. As in, there was something  _ to _ discuss. “It almost sounds...as if you are actually considering…”

Was he viewed  _ that _ badly? That his money wasn’t good enough for charity?

He could understand some not wanting anything from him. Pain could breed much anger - and like Mary Cratchit at first, they might misunderstand: thinking he was trying to buy his slate clean. He’d begun contemplating ways to get funds to his victims’ families so the recipients would be none the wiser.

But this? If he’d dug the hole so deeply no one would ever trust him…then what was he to do?

“As I said, we’ll discuss it.” Hooper’s manner was brusque; when he looked to Thwaites the other reluctantly nodded. “You can come by our offices to follow up, oh - not tomorrow. The day after?”

“All right,” Scrooge managed, feeling unpleasantly detached from physical reality. “At a...certain time, or…?”

“After normal business hours should suffice.” 

Hooper had folded the letter and pocketed it, his hands clasped in front of him. Thwaites gave a glance, as if to say he might be enjoying himself a little  _ too  _ much.

Catching that, Hooper cleared his throat, tipping hat slightly in an approximation of polite farewell. Thwaites followed suit.

“If there’s not anything else, Mr. Scrooge, we’ll bid you good day.”

“Oh. Actually…” They’d already begun walking out but at least they stopped, turning back, when he spoke. “There is one thing.”

He pretended not to notice their visible impatience as they waited for him to continue.

“I don’t suppose either of you would have any need for a housecat? Or, know somebody who does?”

Whatever Hooper had been expecting he might hear, that wasn’t it. “I beg your pardon?”

“Technically, they are still kittens,” Scrooge corrected, absently, “but of course they will eventually be cats, as that is the natural progression. I’ve come into possession of a small litter, though I’ve reconsidered the practicalities of having five cats underfoot in the long-term. So, I am seeking good homes for the majority. Have you any interest?”

Hooper’s expression was transparent: he thought Scrooge had utterly lost his mind. He seemed on the verge of telling him so, but Thwaites spoke instead - with a markedly cheerier manner.

“I’ve a spinster aunt, actually, who could do with the companionship. She’s a bit finicky though, very regimented about appearances - I hope they’re not tabbys? Or spotted?”

“Some are. But there’s a lovely solid grey one, female: I’ve taken to calling her Dido, after the Aeneid’s queen of Carthage. A regal name for a kitten, perhaps, but I’m sure she’ll grow into it. Cats are known to have that particular air about them.”

“Oh yes, she sounds wonderful,” Thwaites said brightly. “I’m certain my aunt would adore her!”

Hooper now looked as if he thought they’d  _ both _ lost their minds.

After the other men extracted themselves from his offices and he was again alone, Scrooge threw himself feverishly back into work.

Mixed as his feelings had been before, almost anything was better than dwelling on what stirred from his encounter with Thwaites and Hooper. Too many warring impulses; resignation and hope and self-pity and self-loathing in thick miasma over his soul.

If his only taskmaster was himself that hardly guaranteed an easy time. Still, he’d a productive afternoon, enough he felt all right about leaving at the regular hour instead of staying to make up for the late morning.

The walk home felt longer; he was keenly aware of the cold. The snow on the ground was frozen, it sounded like he was breaking something with every step - so disconcerting he started talking under his breath, going through list of reminders of what to do before week’s end, just to drown out that sound.

He slipped a one pound note to a group of beggars huddled around a fire in a barrel - politely declined the offer to join them for a drink, and bought his supper off another street cart before finally reaching home.

“No way of adding extra hours to the day,” he remarked to the kittens as he poured their meal, “yet this one seemed twice as long. Now how is that?”

Then he actually looked at the bottle he was holding and realized after tomorrow, Fred’s contribution would be gone. He sighed.

“ _ Another _ errand, then: talk to the milkman, get delivery set up again.”

He had to count himself to sleep that night, because regrets and memories threatened to creep in to disturb his thoughts past any rest. But still no dreams, no nightmares - and to his relief he woke of his own accord at four.

His morning also went as usual; he was at work by quarter to six. No children hanging about leering at him this time.

There was a telegram at precisely seven he paid for then promptly ignored, as he saw the address. A major investor who lived in the city and would’ve gotten his letter of yesterday - knowing his character he was promising either a lawsuit or a heart attack, and Scrooge was in no patience to deal with either.

His morning was productive, maybe even more than the day before now he’d gotten into a kind of pace. Still he made himself stop and close up early, because there was that ponderous list of errands to get into and he preferred daylight if he’d be wandering about the city.

More letters to post, another trip to the bank. A few tradesmen engaged on one thing or another, then finally a venture into the working class neighborhood that was closest to his house. Which was to say, it was still a walk nearly half an hour, particularly given here the pavement was even less clear.

His previous maid had an aunt in the vicinity, one of the few solid enough facts he recalled to go on.

Between lack of detail and lack of helpful interest from locals, however, he wound up going in circles around the rabbit-warren blocks for long enough the frustration was doing a real number on his temper.

“Wotcher, sir!” called a shrill voice.

Scrooge spun round with something unkind ready in snapped retort. But he stopped himself in time as he recognized that massive scarf.

“Oh - it’s you,” he remarked to the Christmas Day errand boy. “You live around here?”

A shrug beneath the worn coat, oversized as the rest of his gear. Either he’d a much older brother he inherited hand-me-downs from, or his mother bought everything from the secondhand store intent on letting him take his time growing out.

“I go wherever I need, where there’s work to be found.”

Perhaps he should’ve approved of that, but this boy couldn’t be older than ten. “Aren’t you ever in school?”

The response was a very rude and dismissive sound.

_ Settles the matter _ , he had to concede. Even if his family couldn’t afford lesson fees there was probably a ragged school in the area for basics - but that was no use, if the child in question found it waste of time to go.

“All right. Well, if you’ve any familiarity with this neighborhood...I don’t suppose you could help me out with some directions?”

The wide eyes sparkled. “How much they worth to you?”

A regular productive member of urbane London society, this one. He had to smirk. “ _ Not _ half a crown,” he informed him. “You caught me in particularly generous mood that day, so if your hopes lay in that vicinity I’m afraid I must dash them.”

The boy didn’t seem disappointed. “Oh, well, awlright - but how much, then?”

“As an accomplished businessman, I should have some assurance you can provide promised service before I enter into discussion of payment,” Scrooge returned with mock solemnity.

“Who you looking for?”

The demand was outright impatient. On the scent of money, he’d perseverance that would make a seasoned debt collector proud.

He gave what information he had, and the boy practically stamped his feet in triumph.

“Sure, I know that address, easy! Take you right to the door, I will!” He paused, prompting, “ _ For-? _ ”

Scrooge laughed. “Five pennies for the assistance, and another five for the much-appreciated improvement to my mood. How does that sound?”

Quite the comedown from a half-crown, but he really did think it closer to fair for what was paid runners and messengers. The boy was undeterred, so likely he was right.

“Round it up to a full shilling?” This wheedling was stubborn optimism, by tone.

“If we get there quick enough, I’ll consider it - but I don’t run as fast as you can, and I won't be dragged,” he said carefully, because he didn’t like the canny notion seeming to flit behind those big blue eyes.

Another shrug from the boy, an adjustment to the wide grey cap, and he took off at a trot.

Scrooge didn’t dart after him, but how eager by now he was to see the matter ended, he hardly dragged his feet.

The narrow door, crammed between others like it in the middle of the street, wasn’t far away. He noted with irritation he was sure he’d passed already, maybe even more than once. Still, he did give the boy a shilling.

The small figure bade him farewell, waving with coin clutched in oversized glove. He was already down the street and gone, off hunting more work and reward no doubt, by the time Scrooge was knocking.

“Good afternoon.” He tipped his hat to the woman that answered, still wearing her apron.

The recognition that came twisted her matronly face into a scowl in breathtaking instant. 

“Oh.  _ You _ ,” she practically snarled.

_ Am I truly to receive no mercy at all?  _ he mentally pleaded, though he wasn’t sure with who. “It, er, appears that you know me, madam.”

“Of course I do.” Folding arms she leaned against doorframe, perhaps preparing to stay awhile for a tirade. “You’re that penny-pinching, awful old tyrant my poor niece was saddled with cleaning up after!”

“I take it that your niece had a thing or two to say about me while she was still in my employ.”

“Quite a few things to say,” she huffed. “I won’t repeat the worst of them!”

“Yes, please don’t,” he mumbled, toying with his walking stick to break from that glare.

“But even without that - one day maid, expected to tidy up a massive frigid garret of a house single-hand! No holidays off, only a Sunday half-day, for barely standard rate of pay and never any bonus!”

“Is that considered normal and expected now?” he wondered, mildly surprised. “Giving household servants bonuses in addition to their regular pay?”

The look he received to his question would indicate he was behind the times in this practice.

“Well...be that as it may,” he felt obliged to go, “she was hardly in service to me long enough to earn-”

“Some respect? Any common decency? Yes, you’re right she wasn’t with you very long - not even three months, and you dismissed her without any warning at all!”

“Yes, well-”

“Wouldn’t even settle with her for the full week’s wages! Let go,  _ two weeks _ before Christmas! Without any character!”

“If I might, in my defense - I did have some reason.” His manner hovered between sheepish and stubborn. “She showed signs of idleness, she began leaving things unstraightened and corners unswept-”

“She told me you started leaving things lying about on purpose,” she returned. “Bits of money, opened letters, important papers. All to try and test her - her _honesty._ Practically shattered her nerves, it did! It got so she was afraid to touch practically anything, fearing it was some sort of trap.”

He didn’t shrink down there on the pavement, at that reminder. But part of him felt it rather wanted to.

“Such testing, the trustworthiness of servants - such tests, they are...somewhat common…”

He trailed off, feebly, when that stony expression didn’t waver the slightest.

He took a moment to recover, suitably repentant and dejected when he addressed her again.

“Right. Look, I am very sorry for how she was treated. This past year was hard for me - I lost a dear friend and, only in looking back on it do I realize...I did not bear the grief particularly well.” He sighed, then clarified quickly, “I know that’s no excuse. Still, I...I am here because I’d like to do what I can to make it up to Miss Betsy-”

“ _ Becky, _ ” came the correction, swift.

He shut his eyes, sighed again, glanced skyward and settled for counting only to five.

“Miss Becky,” he repeated purposefully. “Has she had any luck finding a new place?”

“As a matter of fact she has,” her aunt told him with a kind of defiant pride. “She’s a good maid, no matter what you and your highhanded ‘standards’ may’ve thought of her.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure.” He pulled a folded and sealed note out. “Still, if she has any desire to find something better, or if it will make a difference with her current employer, here is the letter of reference as to her character I denied her at the time. I promise you, I was  _ most  _ kind in my recommendation,” he assured, earnestly - as she took the letter with suspicious frown. “Far kinder than I was to the individual in question, I fear.”

“I’ll give it to her,” she told him. “What she decides to do with it after that, it’s up to her.”

“Thank you. That is all I ask.” He rubbed his hands together, buying time under pretense of seeking warmth. “Actually, I - forgive me, I know I’ve no right to any more of your time. But if you would...indulge me, in another matter?”

She had narrow-eyed, almost resentful inquisitiveness. “And what would that be then, Mr. Scrooge?”

“The fact of the matter is, I’ve not gotten around to replacing your niece, since she left - since I ordered her to go,” he admitted. “You seem to be...well-situated, in this neighborhood. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone looking for a job as a maid?” 

She was staring like she couldn’t believe his audacity.

“I swear to you I will be a better employer than I have in the past. I...I have not been a kind person, for quite a bit of my time in this world, and take it from me it’s not only people working for me who’ve suffered.” Desperation was starting to build in him, anxiously. “But I’m trying to do better now. All I need is the chance.”

Her expression didn’t soften, precisely; but something about it did change, as she carefully considered him again.

“A few blocks over,” she went at last. “A big Irish family moved in earlier this year. Their eldest is looking to go into service. Hardworking girl, from what I’ve seen. Polite little thing; quiet.”

“ _ Looking _ to go?” he repeated - maybe he’d no right to be picky, but he wasn’t entirely encouraged by what he was hearing. “Then, she has no experience?”

“You’d be her first position in a private house. Right now she’s working at one of those places run by the church. They train them in all the basics there, that any girl could need to be a proper maid-of-all-work. A trade school it is, really, almost.”

“I see.” He hesitated. “You...you said Irish? As in, Irish Catholic?”

She scolded him sternly, “They’re good clean people, the same as any other! I vouch for  _ my _ neighbors. Never had any complaint, no matter what some might like to think.”

“Yes, yes of course,” he surrendered, worn down.

His belief in the otherworldly had shifted but his relationship with God, and religion, remained...fraught. And a far less cynical Englishman than he would balk over having a Catholic in their household. Let alone Irish.

Still, he could admit - he’d never held  _ that _ much stock by common prejudices; merely used them to bolster his general misanthropy.

“I intend to work from home on Friday. If she has any interest, she may come by for an interview.”

A nod. “I’ll pass that along.”

“Sometime in the morning, would be preferred.” He couldn’t help himself - if he needed a maid to arrive between four and five, there wasn’t too soon to test her being an early riser. “Certainly, well before tea.”

“Yes. Of course.” She folded her arms again. “Is there anything else, Mr. Scrooge?”

He paused.

“Well, one more thing. Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who might be interested in taking in a kitten?”

As he left the area who should he pass but that same hard-working errand-boy, buying himself a potato for early supper.

“Finish that, and come by my house,” Scrooge ordered him. “I’ve a job for you. And this time, since it’s of utmost importance, I think I  _ will _ in fact give you another half-crown - oh for God’s sake, don’t choke yourself,” he finished, abrupt and testy - he’d never seen such a small child attempt to swallow a hot potato that fast, and it was genuinely alarming.

“Mmmfph fine,” came the dismissive response.

He stared flatly. “What is your name, by the way? Since we seem destined to keep running into each other.”

“If you keep paying me shillings and half-crowns, sir, I’ll make sure of it.” He licked the scraps off his gloves. “My name’s Marty.”

Marty followed eagerly at his heels all the way straight home, save for pause at a stand where he bought the child a drink to wash down the potato - cavalier protests as to the youthful powers of digestion notwithstanding, he couldn’t shake his concerns.

Two kittens were bundled into a basket and sent over to Miss Becky’s aunt, so she could redistribute them to intended destinations. That left only Erasmus, Dido who was spoken for, and the ginger tabby.

And for the last one, he’d a home he knew to be perfectly loving in mind.

“I can’t emphasize this enough, Marty,” Scrooge instructed as he handed over another small basket, on the boy’s return for the final part of his task, “be very careful with the kitten, but you  _ must _ leave before anyone in the household sees you. I don’t want there to be slightest chance of this coming back to me.”

Any normal boy might be curious why this was so important. Marty’s only concern seemed to be he was getting paid, and he asked no further questions.

So off he went, to successfully and stealthily deposit one comfortably-wrapped sleeping ginger kitten on the doorstep of Bob, Mary, Belinda and Tim.

They would be moving soon, Scrooge was sure of it. Maybe they’d wait until after winter, but they were five hundred pounds richer and their rented house was awfully small. Not to mention drafty, which couldn’t be any good for Tim. Proximity to he and his sister’s favorite skating pond, notwithstanding.

He made a severe promise to himself once they were gone, he would not try to find them. He was curious, maybe would always be curious, about what happened to the Cratchits - but he’d had ten years to take interest in their lives. Instead he’d used it to be horrible to them. Tormented them to the point where he’d haunted their home as a literal spectre, and they’d reacted to seeing him uninvited on Christmas Day with shock and even fear as if he were a monster.

Better for the Cratchits they were freed of him. All the money and favors he could heap on the family weren’t worth as much as the peace of forgetting a painful past. He’d his own future to contend with - theirs, he would have to accept, was none of his business.

That night he dined out, because he should probably start acting like a man of his age and position, doing something other than feeding himself from street carts.

There was a tavern he remembered Marley often dragging him to - but he was disappointed to find it wasn’t there.

He’d no right to surprise; it’d been over a year, maybe closer to two. He gave into some maudlin heartbreak, musing on places he’d been and enjoyed that were likely long gone - fading away, while he’d been locked in his counting-house oblivious to the world moving by without him.

But then he walked a few doors down to the next closest tavern - and going inside was instantly cheered when he recognized the same man behind the bar.

“Times change, but business doesn’t.” The tapman gave a wink, touching the side of his nose. “You’ll have to excuse me, ey. But you know, I really could’ve sworn I’d heard that you died.”

“That was the other one,” Scrooge informed him as he got comfortable - he was entirely certain they’d carried the old seats into this place from the former establishment. “My business partner.”

“Makes sense. I never could keep it straight, which of you was Scrooge and which was Marley.” A sage nod. “Now what’ll it be?”

He ordered a pint, a steak and kidney pie; sat there leisurely reading through almost an entire newspaper.

Other patrons were in and out, but one pair of men lingered; either this wasn’t their first stop or they’d been hanging about awhile. Eventually they tried drawing him into conversation - his usual choices would’ve been to flee, or dissuade them through hostility.

He found he wanted to do neither, so gave the conversation with strangers a go. They were drunken nobodies, he reasoned. He could practice on them without fear of embarrassment.

He got through their lengthy dissection of politics by making polite noncommittal sounds. Topics switched to business, and he wound up giving investment tips.

Their appreciation manifested in offer to buy his dinner, which he demurred from. Then they offered to buy him another round.

Ebenezer Scrooge’s head was swimming a bit as he walked home, but that was fine. It made falling asleep all the easier.


	3. In Human Matters

_The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free._

_Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step._

_The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. – Stave One: Marley’s Ghost_

Again, Ebenezer Scrooge woke at four - with no headache, thankfully.

The milkman had left requested delivery on the back steps. He made the mistake of sitting down to put his boots on; Erasmus climbed into his lap and began purring, making it more difficult than it should’ve been to leave.

He got to the office at six. At ten minutes to seven there was a rapping on the door and he discovered four errand boys waiting impatiently, each with a note from some soon to be former associate.

“Good lord,” Scrooge protested, “not one of them could have waited until after New Year’s? What do they believe, that I intend to skip town? And go _where?_ ”

“Think dodgy types are always a’posed to go to France, when they do a runner,” one of the children replied.

“Or America, if you’re really in for it,” said a second.

“Or Australia, if they nick you first,” said a third.

“I heard Brighton is nice this time of year,” the final, youngest child offered.

“Yes, you see, I wasn’t actually asking,” he grumbled. “Do any of you still need payment on-?”

Four small hands were held out toward him. _None_ of the senders had paid for delivery in advance.

“That’s a bit petty,” Scrooge observed - with a touch begrudging admiration. After all, he’d practiced and perfected such pettiness. It’d been habit of his once to send even the most important expected letters back to the sender, should it have been neglected to cover postage in full.

And by ‘once’ - it was meant, recently as prior to Christmas Eve, only four days ago.

His day went by otherwise as anticipated, save for around ten o’clock when he discovered that one shilling precisely had been misplaced in the 1831 ledger.

He lost an entire hour recalculating everything, trying to track it down.

“I swear by everything in this world that has any value - somehow, Jacob, this is _your_ fault,” he berated the empty chair. “I know that you did this. Didn’t you?”

By this point he was opening and closing the same drawers and pacing in circles.

“This has the markings of one of your little pranks all over it. Yes, I can see it now - twelve years ago, right after I finished balancing accounts for the financial quarter, you went back in and changed something around… _‘Some day,’_ you said to yourself, chuckling, ‘ _some day very far from now he is going to have to look back, for some reason, and he won’t be able to make sense of anything and oh my, yes; won’t it be funny then, watching his face turn red and spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolling back in his skull…’”_

He knew the echo of laughter really was just his imaginings. Still, he lost his temper and threw his book at the chair, hard enough to send it crashing, dislodging that familiar scarf onto the floor.

He felt instant pathetic remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed to the air, cooling down entirely.

He righted the chair, put the scarf back, fussed about setting it at exactly the same angle.

He felt more regret when he looked at the offending page with fresh eyes and realized the problem. A six had been misread as a five.

Picking up his pen, he scratched out the tally and fixed it.

“All right,” he muttered, half-hearted, “I think that is still your fault, for the record. You often did have questionable penmanship. I never struggled with reading my own records.”

He lifted his head, gazed at the empty seat - hung his head again and sighed. He rubbed his brow.

“You’re at peace,” he reminded himself. “ _At peace._ I’m still allowed to miss you, I suppose, but I shouldn’t mourn too much. There’s nothing to feel sorry for. Not on your behalf.”

He’d a lump in his throat again and the stinging in his eyes probably wasn’t from the low light. He sat there a moment, listening to the clock and the faint pop of coal in his fire and the rumblings from the street.

He stared at the chair, and the scarf, and the closed appointment books on that side of their matched desks, that would never be used again.

“I do miss you,” he said quietly. “With everything going on, I’m not sure I ever got around to just saying it. I know I didn’t this past year, even once - but then, who would I have said it to?” He looked down, remembering. “Hardly anyone offered me condolences. In response to those that did - I think, usually, I just...grunted. Or something to that effect. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what I was...feeling.”

He sat up straighter; fixing his gaze where he would’ve been holding another pair of eyes, once.

“I wish I’d thought to say something, when you were actually - _here_. That night. I-I don’t think I can be blamed, fully, that there was much in the way of other things on my mind, but…”

He laughed, sadly.

“How many can say they’ve spoken to someone departed, face to face again, after? How many get that chance? I should’ve said something.”

He nodded.

“I should have told you that I cared. I know you never needed to hear such things; you always understood me, somehow, when for years no one else did. But still, when you were standing in front of me again, our two fates intertwined - I should have said that I cared for you, that you meant something to me. If only because it should’ve been acknowledged, out loud, even once.”

There was a time he’d have scolded himself, for engaging in this sentimental madness. A time he wouldn’t have permitted it, to get out a fraction of these words.

That time was no more. He could feel his heartache for what it was, and who knew if Jacob Marley could hear him - but he knew that he wasn’t _gone_. There was something to him still out there, somewhere, and even if only for his own benefit it could be addressed.

He wasn’t talking senselessly to a void. His words, his feelings, had a weight to them. They had substance.

“I wish that you weren’t dead,” he admitted. “That is so...pointless to say, I know. There isn’t any changing it. But part of me wishes it, all the same.” He had to smile. “Things would be so much easier, if you were here. If we were doing this together. I know what I _must_ do, but there are times...moments when I can’t but wonder, _how_.”

He gazed at the space between that desk and chair almost desperately.

“How I can do anything, without you. Particularly something so important as all this. No one is ever going to be able to replace you.” He felt wearied again, saddened. “I don’t think I know how to make friends. I don’t really deserve them, now.” He inhaled. “I barely deserved you.”

He didn’t expect any response - though, for a moment, he wondered. If there would be a voice, or a knock, or something falling down the chimney again, or an unexplained gust of wind.

But nothing happened; that was all right, he supposed. Whether as curse or blessing, he’d more than his fair share of miracles.

He finished his workday. A quick stop by his house after, and then on to Thwaites and Hooper.

The business - as the men themselves - was around a decade younger, but seemed less concerned about precious overhead than Scrooge and Marley. Rather than a single streetfront office their firm was run from set of floors in a narrow building that might’ve been a warehouse once. They weren’t far from Fleet Street; indeed, Scrooge half-expected to see printing presses running nonstop on the bottom floor, the layout was so similar.

But there weren’t any presses, only rows of desks that during the day would’ve been occupied by clerks. Given the hour almost no one was there. Relief to him, as he didn’t know whether Bob Cratchit had started yet and probably wouldn’t have enjoyed running into him.

A remaining employee was torn from paperwork long enough to show Scrooge up the stairs, to the office of the owners.

Hooper was at his desk still, head bent, scratching away in an all-too-familiar sight. Thwaites however was dressed to leave, seemed about to do so when Scrooge appeared.

He thought it wise to hold up the small open box he’d procured to carry Dido in and show it, in lieu of verbal greeting.

The pleased smile appearing across the other man’s face probably was thanks to this. Certainly, it could be no reaction to their human visitor.

“As promised.” Scrooge handed the box to him.

“Oh, splendid!” Beaming, Thwaites took a good look, giving the kitten gentle scritch under her chin. “Yes, wonderful - wonderful indeed. I’m off to dine with my aunt just now, actually - Hooper is empowered to speak on my behalf.” He nodded back at the figure behind the desk.

“Oh...I see.” He glanced, uncertainly. Perhaps it was improvement, not to be set one against two.

“I should warn you, my aunt will likely be sending you a calling card,” Thwaites went on. “Only as a formality of thanks however. She never visits _anyone_. So, don’t feel too concerned about what you might be obliged into, if you respond.”

“Ah - yes. Thank you.”

There was something niggling about that ‘if’: clearly, it was not considered certainty he would have the courtesy to respond to some lonely old woman’s note of thanks.

Then again, he’d ignored more meaningful social niceties - and when was the last time he’d done anything to earn thanks, or indeed a card at all?

He frowned to himself, after he exchanged distracted farewells with Thwaites. Every time he felt stung by how the worst was expected of him, he didn’t have to search memory very hard for reason why that expectation was precisely what he’d earned.

He approached Hooper’s desk - he had to have heard Scrooge’s arrival, but he neither looked up or stopped working.

“Good evening, Mr. Hooper.” He managed a smile. It was wasted, as Hooper still didn’t look.

“Good evening, Mr. Scrooge,” he murmured. “Just in the middle of something; I’d hate to lose my train of thought. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.” He no longer bothered with the smile. The airiness of Hooper’s tone, the way he paused in his writings - he was finishing a task, but it wasn’t importance or focus that kept him from giving more attention to his guest.

His coat was unbuttoned, his hat in hand - no one had offered him place to leave them. There was a chair tucked in front of Hooper’s desk - it hadn’t been pulled out beforehand, nor was it offered to him now.

After a tensely uncomfortable moment passed, Scrooge indicated the chair. “Might I sit down?”

“Oh, no need. I’m certain you won’t be here long enough for that to be necessary,” Hooper replied.

“I see.”

Scrooge smiled again. A twisted half-expression, brought on by bitter humor.

“I ask this question not out of any misplaced sense of...defensiveness; merely an honest curiosity.” He gestured. “Am I truly perceived as being so dreadful that I warrant this type of disregard? Is that at about the level where, after years of the same behavior, my reputation now sits?”

That at least got Hooper to stop writing and look up at him, brow furrowed.

Perhaps most wouldn’t have addressed it so directly. Or perhaps he hadn’t expected Scrooge to possess any self-awareness of this sort.

Hooper set pen aside, folding his hands. “You mention a reputation. You _do_ have one, you know. In this city. It precedes you very far. Especially in certain circles - circles such as I belong to, given the nature of my enterprise.”

Now he only felt uncomfortable again. “Yes, I know.”

“Our firm _is_ a business, and for the record one that of the last few years has made a decent success - but our business is _charity._ Providing organization, stability, diversity of funds - our success, _real_ success is measured not in profit, but by the strength and number of our accomplishments.”

“Yes, I know,” he repeated, frowning. “I _have_ paid some attention to your firm’s experiences, as I indicated in my letter-”

“Yes, your letter.” Hooper was frowning likewise. He distracted himself, as he thought, lightly drumming on his desk. “We can’t accept such a sum at once,” he said shortly. “It wouldn’t be wise, we have absolutely nowhere safe to put it.”

As practical concern, it had enough merit. A largesse sitting in a bank vault under a charitable organization's name might draw unpleasant scrutiny from the local authorities.

“All right.” Scrooge offered, “A series of payments, then. As long as it takes, until you feel satisfied you have appropriate places to distribute the money.”

“Yes, which would draw out your connection to us exponentially, wouldn’t it?” Hooper’s smile was thin. “Maybe even indefinitely.”

“I am...not trying to buy you out,” he protested, as he slowly understood. “It was a donation! Truly.”

Hooper only kept that same unpleasant, forcible smile. Eyeing the man opposite him with skepticism.

“I am not trying to _trick_ you. Or Mr. Twaites. Or any of your other lesser partners, or your investors, or-”

“You have a reputation,” Hooper emphasized, “of being not only slippery and cut-throat in your dealings, _sir_ , but prone to some truly staggering acts of spite. Now for ten years you’ve kept Bob Cratchit in as close to indentured servitude as the law would allow, and the day after you find out he’s finally giving notice you offer a small fortune unprompted to the very place he’s been hired?”

He pressed hand to his temple, shutting his eyes as he tried not to - he wasn’t even sure what. Panic? Lose his temper? Give in to despair?

“It was not unprompted, I remind you,” he muttered. “You approached _me_ , you asked me about it only the day before.”

“Yes, and it was your response _then_ that pushed Thwaites to speak to Mr. Bob, which led to his leaving your firm, at which point you ‘changed your mind’ on a matter to a degree so dramatic I daresay you might as well have gone out and bought yourself a new mind entirely!”

Scrooge shook his head at him. “No, no, no - you have this all wrong. All wrong, I assure you!”

He caught his breath in nearly a gulp. “I am sorry - truly _deeply_ sorry - that I have been...such a person, that even something like this would warrant such suspicion. But, I implore you, listen to reason. If nothing else.”

He held out both hands, palms spread towards Hooper.

“It’s my money to do with as I please. All mine, but it doesn’t do me any good. It never did; not really. So why not give it to those who could use it? Those in need? Isn’t that the entire point of organizations like yours: to take money from those that have it and are willing to give, and get it to those who need it more? So, why should what I’m trying to do be viewed as so irregular?”

Hooper was still uncertain, though the impassioned plea left him conflicted. Perhaps even vaguely concerned, to go by his expression, for the emotional state of the speaker.

Finally, Hooper stated the obvious, “Because it is _you_ who is doing it.”

Scrooge dropped his hands. “Yes. I know,” he admitted. “But...Mr. Hooper, I may not have many years left, to be sure. But I am not gone _yet_. Surely there is still time to choose something different. Surely, so long as I remain breathing, I have that right.”

He tilted his head, giving the other a look.

“I know that I’ve the _ability_ , no matter what you might think. If you’ll forgive me...it is very frustrating, to be denied the chance to do some good in the world when my only desire is to try.”

There was a pause. Hooper’s brow remained tightly furrowed.

Then he breathed out, slow - not a sigh, but close. Reaching into his desk drawer he pulled out a piece of paper and started writing down an address.

“There is a workhouse in Baltham we’ve long-standing association with - they were promised we’d put together a donation of twenty pounds for them. I think we shall be giving them double that. And I would like you to handle the matter, personally.”

“Done.” Thrown by the easy turnaround, Scrooge reached for the address. “I’ll have the cheque drawn up at once.”

Hooper held onto one end, preventing him from taking the paper.

“You misunderstand me. I don’t want you to see that the cheque is sent there, Mr. Scrooge. I want _you_ to deliver it.”

He froze. Technically, it was an insult - asking him to be someone else’s messenger. But he doubted this was only a power game.

Hooper didn’t like him, that was quite clear. But to some degree he seemed proud of his organization's accomplishments, to actually care about their work. He wouldn’t chase away Scrooge - and his money - on something purely trivial.

This had the feeling of a test. Even if he couldn’t begin to divine what or how.

“What is it, in particular, that you expect I should do?” he asked slowly.

There it was, that thin smile of Hooper’s again.

“I expect that you should take a carriage to this address tomorrow evening, with your cheque, and ask to speak to the commissioner. After you explain on whose behalf you have come, and delivered your - _our_ \- gift, I expect you shall be offered a tour of the facilities, to demonstrate how the operation is being run and what a difference the money makes. And I expect that _you_ will accept that offer, most graciously, and with a good deal of interest, and take your time being shown around to every bench and slate and straw mattress they care to point out to you.”

Hooper released the paper.

Scrooge did not stagger, precisely, but the combination of momentum and words left him feeling disoriented nonetheless.

Hooper wasn’t smiling, anymore. “It is very easy to throw money at problems. To think nothing of it. Some in this city, that’s what they think of our poor as: a problem. They pride themselves on being productive problem-solvers. But they never lay eyes on the actual poor. They haven’t the stomach for it.”

He retrieved his pen and began writing again.

“I’d often heard it said,” he remarked archly, face toward his work, “that between the two of them, neither Mr. Scrooge nor Mr. Marley had any bowels. Well - we shall find out.”

Scrooge glanced at the address he clutched in a hand that’d lost feeling.

This was perhaps no different than the lessons the spirits had done their best to impart on him. Still, it was one thing to develop and profess the best of intentions - another to live the reality.

He couldn’t help it. He felt sickened, shaken to his core.

Gaze askance, teeth clenched, he hissed out before he realized what he was doing, _“Humbug.”_

Hooper’s pen stopped mid-scratch and he jerked his head up to stare at him.

He stared back, and did his level best to look innocent, and pretend that hadn’t happened.

“I will see this taken care of, Mr. Hooper.” He held up the paper, resisting compulsion to crumple it in his fist. Putting hat back on, he went to leave. “And I will follow up with you about it sometime next week.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Hooper mused like he wasn’t very sure at all. “Happy New Year, Mr. Scrooge.”

“Happy New Year,” the addressed managed in barely polite reply.

He stalked home, and where the past few days he’d something in his expression that a fair number of people on the street would smile at him, if not even greet him outright, that was no longer the case.

He was cold again - colder within than without, to where the winter could hardly chill him. It stiffened his gait, shriveled his cheeks - passerby saw whatever they had before, for years, that made them avoid his gaze and know better than to offer any friendliness.

He got in, changed into his nightclothes; he skipped dinner. He poured a glass of sherry and nursed it, scowling, in his chair by a dying fire.

It was only when Erasmus came to claw at his leg, yowling in pitiful hunger, that Scrooge regained presence of mind. He seemed to step outside himself and saw what he was doing.

Sighing wearily he leaned forward, pressing his face into both hands.

“Easier to count and reason than to see, than to remember - than to feel,” he murmured as he slouched back in his chair. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The kitten was making concerned sounds. Scrooge petted around its face with free hand.

“So, what am I feeling?” The hardest problems were often easiest for him to work through aloud. His hand dropped to rest under his chin. “I am feeling...anger, impatience, hurt pride, and - fear.”

The last came slowly to his lips, but he recognized the truth of it with unhappy resolve.

“Yes. Fear.” He picked up Erasmus and held him close, stroking him. “I do not like going unfamiliar places, particularly at another one’s bidding. I do not like dealing with strangers. And I do not like…” his voice, already quiet, grew quieter; “the way that people look at me. What I see about myself now, reflected back at me from their eyes.”

Before he’d never noticed, and before he’d never cared. It was easy wanting people to hate him when he’d thought everyone’s heart was naturally so full of hatred it didn’t matter.

Now, when he knew better; when he did see, and care - though he should bear it with resignation, it didn’t change how unpleasant it was to be looked at that way.

Even if he deserved no sympathy - oh, how he wanted some. For someone to pat his shoulder, say _‘there there’_ ; to notice he tried. For one person to look happy to see him.

But, why? Someone could have - did love - the unhappy boy he’d been. Someone could have loved the man he might’ve been, had he been bothered to give love of his own years before.

But who could ever bring themselves to love the man now that was Ebenezer Scrooge?

“The bright mirror was supposed to ensure the world knew the truth, too,” he recalled, somberly. “But the world already knew. I just never realized.”

He carried Erasmus off and fed him. And then he went to bed.

As he lay behind closed curtains, counting backward, he tried reasoning away part of his anxiety. The commissioner might not know him, might only see a distinguished gentleman bringing a donation. The residents might not ever hear his name said aloud.

It was cowardly - but there was a good chance he’d not have to deal with the consequences of being himself.

That thought brought him much relief. Enough he was able to fall asleep at last.

He was somewhat restless when he awoke - he was sure he’d dreamed something. Some unhappy memory - though whatever it was, it’d slid back down into slumber, unable to hold him.

Work by five thirty. Even more notes and letters; a telegram that included language he didn’t know they were allowed to use. Though he supposed one could pay for whatever they liked.

He remembered to stop for tea in the afternoon, to send out to a bakehouse for supper. He wanted to be well-fortified for the evening.

 _It won’t be as bad as you think_ , he told himself, again, as he hailed a hackney carriage.

It was only witnessing the realities of poverty he’d have to deal with - in a place where the poor were being looked after, at that. He wasn’t _that_ sheltered. It wouldn’t be that bad.

He was right, it wasn’t that bad - it was far worse.

The lady commissioner indeed hadn’t recognized his name; perhaps hadn’t even heard it, so brightly did she latch onto hearing the organization he’d come on the behalf of. She was unabashedly thrilled, to receive forty pounds instead of twenty - to her, those extra pounds might’ve been gifted straight from King Solomon himself.

She began showing him around, and it was - awful. _Ghastly._ It was shadowed, cramped, frigid and filthy.

He saw how many had to share sleeping quarters; the state of the food and blankets they were given; the paltry equipment they had to learn trades on and their children attempt achieving some education with. And then, there was-

“Ah yes, the smell.” She noticed the expression he couldn’t conceal. “We get used to it, worker and resident alike, of course. But interested parties who visit often don’t take to it.”

She produced a handkerchief and scent, holding it out with cheerily practical manner.

“It’s not so terrible as you might think,” she went on. “Only the result of many bodies living pressed together; and, well, I’m afraid we can’t provide as regular opportunity for them to wash as we’d like - all that water, and how to get it here? Particularly at this time of year! And of course sometimes illness breaks out and we can’t clean up the sick straight away when we’re focused on quarantine - oh, but truly, we run as clean a facility as we can here, sir. We pride ourselves on it! I’ve seen far worse myself.”

Maybe he should’ve endured without: but swiftly he took the cloth and pressed it over his nose and mouth, trying not to stagger as he continued following her.

The residents didn’t stop whatever tasks they were engaged with as the tour passed them. A few glanced up, curious - but most weren’t that interested in his presence. The very youngest might point or tug on an adult’s hand.

The adults and a disturbingly high number of the children, however - they seemed entirely used to being stared through.

He kept from counting every head; the commissioner's pace was too brisk for that.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the businesses he’d purchased only to tear down - so many workers deprived of livelihood, often without any warning. And then there were the adults who’d been maimed by the stringent conditions he set, left unemployable. And the children whose parents died outright in his workshops, pushed onto the street without any means of support.

He’d grown up skirting in and out of true poverty, so he’d thought - but always, his family managed to keep a roof over their heads. Evidently, that made quite the difference.

The worst part was how his guide kept talking. Clearly, she really did think what they’d achieved was something to be impressed by. That with resources they had, the result was worthy of praise.

She didn’t _seem_ a delusional woman, otherwise. Which hinted at the terrible possibility she was right.

So many workhouses in this city - and hospitals, and prisons too, since he’d seen fit at one point to consider them all the same. What was it like, where the staff was neither efficient nor concerned? Where there was no Thwaites and Hooper supplying extra funds?

 _‘Many would rather die than go there’_ \- to think, he’d dismissed that as the dramatics of the ungraciously idle.

No, perhaps this actual workhouse wasn’t that bad, could’ve been far worse even - but still, it would haunt him. For the same reason that the factory fire and the mine collapse would haunt him.

All those human lives affected and he’d caused it; simply by never thinking about it, by never caring.

Once they finished, the commissioner invited him to her office for biscuits and tea.

She wasn’t disappointed or surprised when he replied he had to be going. Perhaps that was the usual response.

He kept from bolting out the door, barely. Once he’d put half a block behind him, he started breathing deep, desperate as if he’d been running for his life.

It was London city air, but under the circumstances it seemed as sweet as flowers of the fields.

It was dark, though at least this area had decent streetlamps. It’d snowed again while he was inside, leaving the ground piled white.

There were no hackneys this far out. Indeed, he didn’t see another soul around.

No matter. Long and lonely as it’d be, he found he wanted a walk. Hopefully it’d exhaust him enough he could shut his eyelids and fall asleep without anything appearing behind them.

He set off with shoulders drawn up near his ears; as much to keep the cold at bay as help bear the sad weight dragging him down.

Without consulting his pocket-watch, he was unsure how much time had passed when he came upon an especially bright lamp. It sat at one corner of the street, light glinting off the shutters of the closed shop-front directly behind.

He wasn’t the only one to have been drawn in by the brightness - a figure leaned against the post, almost hiding behind it. As he came closer, they slid into view.

It was a young woman in faded purple, hair hidden beneath a bonnet, hugging arms tight against her sides.

“Evening there, sir,” she called, smiling friendly. “You look cold. Like a bit of help getting warm?”

Scrooge stopped.

He looked up at the street signs, but it was too dark to read them.

“Oh,” he observed aloud, mildly; “I hadn’t realized I’d crossed into that part of town.”

She ducked her head, having it appeared to reflexively repress a laugh or two. Probably not how she’d foreseen him reacting.

“No, I - no thank you,” he told her. “I’m sure many would be more than content with the offer, but I - I’ve no interest.” He gestured awkwardly. “No intended offense.”

“Suit yourself.” She again leaned on the lamppost, as if it could shield the chill. “Far more polite a rejection than I’ve usually received, to be honest. So, thank you, for that.”

“You’re...you’re welcome.”

They stared at each other - him disconcerted, her utterly calm.

“I’m sorry,” he began, unable to help it, “it’s only...it’s been awhile since I’ve had encounter with this sort of thing firsthand-”

“Oh has it been?” she teased.

Normally he wasn’t much for being laughed at, but he was aware he presently deserved it with his strange behavior. “I only have to wonder at...is it usual, to be so forward in approach?”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she seemed surprised rather than insulted.

“It depends. Some parts of town, a man walks there, anybody knows what he’s after. We shout to him like we’re fishwives; no harm done. Other neighborhoods though - gotta be careful. You wait for his approach, no matter how interested he looks. Because you see in the nicer areas, you so much as make eyes at the wrong gent - ooh. You’ve done a grave insult, and you’ll pay for it with your hide, if you don’t move light enough on your feet.”

She indicated him with a sway of her head.

“Normally making first advance to a respectable-looking gentleman such as yourself, around here, would risk a thrashing with a walking stick,” she admitted. She shrugged. “But it’s late, and you’re alone, and-”

“You're desperate,” Scrooge observed.

She stopped, staring at him differently.

“I meant no offense, I only...well. I can see from here that your stockings are torn. The underside of your skirts, they’re poking through where fabric’s been worn right down to the hem. It’s bitter cold out, but you’ve only got a shawl on, and no real gloves. Which means you had to sell your coat, or can’t afford one.”

She’d glanced over herself as he spoke - was back to looking at him sharply, incredulous. Not so much that he’d noticed probably, as that he was pointing it out.

He gave a vague shrug. “You’re out here because you have to be. Because you need to earn a night’s pay, or you’ll have nothing on the morrow.”

“You’re right,” she conceded - smiling again, but it wasn’t so bright. He didn’t know that he’d embarrassed her, exactly, but her manner did become a touch defensive. “Times have been tough. Even for the likes of little ol’ me. It’s, well…” She set her hands on her hips. “You’re in business, aren’t you?”

Reluctantly he nodded. “Yes.”

“Yeah. You have that look.” The smile was more smirk. “There’s some concept in business, I think - about how, ah, having too much of a thing can make it worth less money?”

“Supply and demand,” he provided. “You are referring to supply and demand.”

“Right. Well, there’ve been factories shut down this year. Put more than a fair share of women out on their own, unemployed. Plus the harvests were bad, so that’s loads of hungry folk moving in from the country. More women, and,” she hesitated, “children - who have no useful skills, apart from being children.”

She didn’t elaborate - she just looked displeased, for a pause.

But then, she didn’t need to explain. She only couldn’t know how those words made him briefly taste bile, as the breath caught in his throat.

“So,” she spread her hands, like she was making a joke out of it - a joke she wasn’t laughing at, nor did she seem to expect his laughter either, “that’s the story, then. There is not enough demand for our supply. It’s unfortunate.” She exhaled. “The weather isn’t helping, either. Right now, if the men can afford the places where they stay inside and can play cards and drink while they bring the girls to them, well, they’d much rather. So, that’s less and less hungry gents trawling the streets. And if you don’t rate to get brought inside, which is often decided by things beyond our control - well then, that’s it for you.”

“I hadn’t realized there was an economy to it. I would’ve thought there were certain...goods, for which there’s an inexhaustible market,” he mused. “But it seems it’s true what they say. Commerce is all connected, ultimately.”

“Suppose that it is.”

She hugged herself for warmth again, managing a wan smile. Perhaps she was one of the type that always found it easier to smile than not.

“Plus, funny thing about money - it seems like somehow, you gotta spend to make more of it.”

“Oh no, that is a common principle of business,” he said automatically. “You invest in hopes of long-term benefit to profit.”

Her smile was amused again, at least. “People pay more for a thing if they think it’s _worth_ more. If it looks nice.”

“Yes - advertising, in a word.” He pointed behind her. “This store, for example. If the shutters were battered, if the sign had faded and was falling down. People might wonder what the quality of goods was like, that it had gotten into such condition. It might lose them potential customers. It would have to be balanced, the expense of having the outside fixed up, placing a new sign, against favorable possibility it’d cause an increase to future sales.”

His preferred tactic had always been to cut corners rather than invest in turnaround, but that hardly meant he didn’t understand. It was too inherent an idea to his livelihood.

“Appearances can be surprisingly important in business,” he went on. “What you’re selling, to a certain degree, is confidence.”

“Yes, appearances are important in my business too,” she returned, almost playful. “As you noticed, I’ve had a couple of hard months. A truly rotten Christmas.”

She glanced down, then soldiered on.

“It’s bordering on dangerous, actually, the state I’ve gotten into. See, most men, they think as you do.”

“As _I_ do?” he repeated, confused and taken aback.

“I mean,” she explained, and now she _was_ laughing, “making the same assumption you did, earlier. They think, how hard is it for a woman to sell herself? There’ll always be someone ready to buy. So, they see a girl who’s got holes in her petticoats and stockings and,” a wave at her face, “her paint’s in smudges on account of her kohl stick’s a nub - well they imagine there must be something wrong with her. All used up or stinks of gin or she’s ill, in a way that catches. Begging pardon, sir, but I think you must know what I mean.”

This last remark was probably added because they’d strayed into frank conversation very much not done between the sexes, and Scrooge realized he must be looking a little green in the face.

“Not...personally,” he stammered. “But yes. Yes I do know what you mean.”

“The lower in appearance you get, the less you find gents who’ll even look at you. And the ones that do…” No smiles, at thought of them. “Well, there’s a reason they’re types who look on the cheap. They get rough, try not to pay you. Or both. Drag you down some alley and you might never wake up again.”

He’d absolutely nothing to say to that, but she wasn’t waiting for response.

“So, I need money.” An attempt at being dismissive, flippant even. “To fix up the storefront and repaint the sign, to borrow from your example. I’ll invest in my future.”

“That is...wise,” he went carefully. “But to plan like that, you do need the money first. How long are you intending to wait out here tonight?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Another shrug. “As long as it takes me.”

His turn for the wan smile. “It’s freezing. And you’ve almost nothing on to properly keep warm.”

He hadn’t meant to be so long talking to her. And it’d undeniably wandered into an exceedingly odd exchange, between her frankness and his remarks.

Regardless, the result was he couldn’t turn now and leave. He’d genuine fear she’d die of cold if she stayed out much longer.

“There’s snow past your boots, and the wind’s picking up. What will you do, if no one else comes this way? You should go home. Your needs, whatever they are, cannot outweigh what seems a certainty you’ll get sick, or worse.”

“I do know how to take care of myself, you know.” Still smiling; his concern hadn't insulted her. “In case you hadn’t gathered, I know the ins and outs of this life.”

He had, in fact, gathered. “How long – might I ask, how long have you been doing this?”

“Let me think. Eight years, it’s been.”

It was said factually, with neither tragedy nor pride.

He looked her over more carefully - before he’d been nervous it might be misconstrued, but now he couldn’t keep from studying her.

She was petite, with round dark eyes – visibly a child of Empire, somehow, for her skin had a faint brownness no overcast London winter had faded. But her face was thin and there were shadows under her eyes, her lips cracked and chapped. The state of her clothes only served to emphasize the years of hardship in the body underneath.

He liked the necessary hardness that’d been created in her even less, in contrast to how young she clearly still was for it.

“I…” he hesitated. “I suppose it would be rude to ask your age?”

“It would be _irregular_ , perhaps. Except much of this conversation has been already, so why not? I’m twenty-two.” She was chuckling. “And to save you the math I've been doing this since I was fourteen, as I believe that’s what you’re really curious about.”

She’d caught him. Subtlety wasn’t precisely his strength in dealing with people.

“Fourteen?” he could only repeat; disconcerted, though he wasn’t wholly surprised.

“Well my mother was gone, so I’d to fend for myself then.” Tilting head back, she tried for cheek; “But you’d be surprised at how capable a fourteen year old girl can be.”

He thought of Lottie around that age, getting herself a carriage and a gun, racing alone to her younger brother’s rescue.

“Actually, no,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t at all be surprised.”

She went pensive. “I do have a plan, actually. For what I’ll do tomorrow, if I don’t find work tonight. I was gonna sell my hair. Got it all worked out.”

She shifted to keep feet warm as she spoke.

“Ten pennies for new stockings. I can get a dress second-hand in Houndsditch; that’s maybe a shilling, if I’ve any luck. Shilling and a half, to be careful. Some twist to fix up my shawl, some lace to turn new warmer gloves out of the scraps. There’s another four pennies. Tin of lip rouge-”

“Penny and a half,” he chimed in.

She stopped her litany, blinking at him.

He could only give a self-deprecating smile.

“As you guessed already, I’m in business. You could say in the business of everything – of trading, buying and selling. I’ve made a lifelong study in commodities...an exhaustive, obsessive study.”

He made a purposeless gesture – it made him tired to recollect, now.

“There’s next to nothing I don’t have at least some idea as to a going rate on.”

“Well,” she was wryly entertained, “in any case. Round out with a hot meal to give me strength for a day and night of walking. What I get for the hair will more than take care of all that.”

“It should indeed. You have that well-economized.”

“Need to keep track, don’t I - down to the ha’penny. It’s just practicality.”

“Would that I had that excuse,” he said, dismal.

His counting and scraping seemed even worse compared to her resourceful thrift. She couldn’t let a penny slip through her fingers, literally; she couldn’t afford it. It might be life or death at some point.

He on the other hand couldn’t let a penny go because he didn’t _want_ to. And he’d driven himself and everyone around him more than half-mad by it.

As he stood there silently judging himself, however, something shifted in the atmosphere: drawn out perhaps by the inquiries, her expression became increasingly meditative.

She confessed, gradually, “I don’t really want to sell my hair, is the thing.”

She’d wrapped an arm around the lamppost, looking at the ground. Eyes hidden, temporarily, beneath dark lashes.

“It’s...silly, I know. After everything else I’ve done,” she muttered. “But - I like my hair. And, it feels like admitting it’s getting hard, in a way I never wanted it to. I dunno.” She drew back up, inhaling.

One wondered how often she’d had to do that. Find more strength within.

“I do what I have to, to get by - that’s all.”

“You have your pride. There’s...nothing wrong, with that.”

He didn’t know his feelings now on the notion of divine providence - mainly because he couldn’t think of _himself_ as the chosen instrument for anything positive. That seemed like misplaced arrogance to a high degree.

Still, here he was - and here she was. Maybe that’d happened for a reason.

“How much do you usually want for your night’s work?”

She’d had face turned away, rubbing her cheek; feeling awkward perhaps by the turn taken, regarding her innermost feelings. But at his question she looked up again.

“What,” she inquired with amusement, “all that talk of business and numbers - that what it took to get your feeling interested?”

“What? Oh goodness - _no!_ ”

He about panicked, at being so misunderstood.

“No, I’m not...I’ve still no interest, in your services. I only want to give you the same amount of money you’d earn: that way you can go home tonight and be warm, and you won’t have to sell your hair either.”

“There’s no need to be _that_ coy, sir.”

“No, no. Listen to me, please. I fully understand how given the life you’ve had, you’re used to knowing every person you encounter must want something from you.” He about pleaded with her, “But for all of that, you seem to have a - a gladness about you, a resilience of spirit. Surely, you must still have some faith in the general goodness of humanity.”

She’d stopped smiling again, looking at him with confused disbelief.

“All I want is to help you. I know it can be hard, sometimes, to accept help from another - for any number of reasons. And I know that, for all we’ve been talking, we are still strangers - our paths might never cross again.” He gave his own humorless smile. “But how can I go home, knowing you’re still out here? How can I close my eyes and forget, knowing I did nothing?”

All those people he hadn’t seen, all that suffering. Now he couldn’t _stop_ seeing it.

“Please. Please, let me do this for you.”

“I don’t understand.” Her words came slowly. “Why would you do that? You must be getting something out of it.”

For years he’d allowed himself to mistake every person for nothing but greedy and ungrateful – why was it now he struggled to convince people to accept his help? Was this divine irony, or part of his penance?

“Think of it as a gift – a true gift, not a debt in disguise.” He dropped his head. “If you must know, perhaps what I get from it is awareness I might be making a difference in the life of another: a positive one, for a change.”

So many chances he’d had, at benevolence, at charity - what he’d give now, for a fraction of what he’d squandered.

“I could make a list of those I am because of my carelessness past helping. I would have to group them, but it could be done.” He was talking to himself despite there being someone in front of him: an old habit, born out of lifetime of forgetfulness towards others. “Where should I begin? Chronologically, or alphabetical? Two years ago it was a shipwright, Ableforth and Sons. Ten years ago was the Bombay Reserve. Six years ago, the Carter, Chatham and Frankfort textile mill. Nine years, Davidson Enterprises. Three years, the Doubleday Glassworks factory. And on, and on, and on.”

Though his voice remained low it’d grown thinner, harsher with intensity.

“Who knows how many people. I didn’t help any of them - I did the opposite. I could force myself to distraction, wondering - how many of them wound up in a place like where I visited tonight? How many might’ve ended up in your position, or worse? How many…” he stopped, swallowing frustration; “How many are now _beyond_ all help?”

She was staring again. But not as she had at any point in their wandering exchange so far. Gone entirely was the amusement, the perplexity, the dismissal.

Her eyes were very wide instead, with shocked realization.

“...You’re _Ebenezer Scrooge_.”

Somehow the last thing he’d expected to hear was his own name.

He started, gazing at her in uncomfortable bewilderment. “How...h-how do you…?”

The smile returned, forced this time - with a slant, a twist.

“Because before this, I was a mill girl.” She paused, giving proverbial other shoe time to drop: “At Carter, Chatham and Frankfort.”

His eyes went heavenward in stoic gloom.

He’d set himself up for this. Worrying agitatedly whether they might recognize him at the workhouse, might know the things he’d done - if the group might even turn on him. He’d dodged that only to stand opposite now one person who’d the awareness he’d been leery of in the hands of the many.

Truth be told, at the moment he would rather be facing the angry mob.

“And I kept some friends there, after I’d left,” she continued. “And I heard from them about what happened. And they told me who did it: Scrooge and Marley.”

What happened - the usual, for their firm. A struggling enterprise bought on the cheap, the unrelenting noose pulled constantly tighter to eke out the last bit of profit.

They’d drudged on that way a few years then finally been abruptly shuttered down, sold at auction for the parts.

“And you can’t be Marley. Because he’s dead. About a year ago, I think, yeah? It wasn’t in the papers, but word got around. I heard that from my friends, too.”

He’d a terrible, misplaced urge to laugh. That mill’s final fate was one of the last pieces of work Scrooge and Marley finished together.

“And I suppose they drank a toast?” he couldn’t restrain from asking, sardonic.

“Don’t know. Think a few might’ve spit on the ground, actually.”

“Well, that’s not the worst bodily fluid that’s been spilled on his behalf.” Dark humor abruptly vanished, leaving him hollow. “He was my friend, but I won’t take offense to those reactions. I know he was far from that to many.”

Regret; not for himself this time. Probably no other in London had a warm thought for Marley.

It felt a shame somehow. For all the harm his actions had done, Jacob had been more than that.

She was considering him in narrow sideways fashion, frowning. “Is that it, then? He died and it’s got you thinking things over, wondering about what’s for you when it’s your turn? Hoping that you might be remembered with something a bit better than curses and spit?”

He shook his head, throat dry. “No.”

“Then...why?”

Her question had different weight to it, now it wasn’t just an isolated act of generosity: she was aware what a change it was.

It hadn’t been a full week and he was already heartily sick of that question. Heartily sick, and ashamed, that people kept needing to ask.

“Because - because there is no reason _not_ to. Something I should’ve realized a long time ago; a lifetime, in fact.”

He drew to his full height, trying to stare her down not with threat but solemnity; make her comprehend how serious he was - how important it’d become to him, even.

“But I haven’t slightest interest in keeping you out in the cold to employ you as my confessor. Please, again - I make you my offer,” he stressed. “I want nothing from you in return.”

Her eyes had gone half-lidded. The way her arms were folded no longer seemed entirely for warmth.

“You know, I never did give you answer. An amount.” She said archly, almost harsh; “And now I know what _you’re_ worth.”

The double meaning did not present itself as accidental.

He shook his head. “You could name about any amount you like, it wouldn’t make any difference. I’d never miss it. To me, it’s worth nothing - to you, it would be worth a great deal more.”

Her eyes seemed even deeper and darker when she wasn’t smiling. “I’m tempted to call your bluff.”

He spread hands accommodatingly, waiting.

Her eyes narrowed, more - then she stopped with quiet exhale.

“But I didn’t make it this far by being a cheat.” She bit her lip. “Tell you what. I’ll settle with you for what I’d have gotten for the hair.” She lifted her chin. “We’ll say that you _are_ paying me fair for it, even: to keep it attached to my head.”

“Those terms are more than acceptable.” He half-smiled, awash with relief. “What were you expecting to be paid for your hair?”

“Oh, let’s see. It’s good hair, I think; black as anything, nearly straight. A bit thick.” She put hand against her hip bone. “Comes down to about here. So that’s-”

“About fifty, fifty-five centimeters,” he guessed. “I’m rounding - I never round, usually, but I don’t happen to have my ruler on me.”

“What,” she mocked, “don’t have one stowed away in your hat?”

He ignored that. “Hair as you describe would be considered good quality for wig-makers, though it’s not in one of the most valuable colors. Black, still, is better than brown. That’d make the going rate, this time of year-”

“You’re really gonna know that?” She was dubious - until he gave the number he’d come to. Then her eyebrows rose. “Yeah, actually. That’s near what I’d figured; and I did some research. You really _do_ keep that all in your head.”

“And precious little else, I’m afraid,” he informed her wryly.

At least that made her smile again, a bit. He pulled out his wallet, counting the bills.

When he started to step towards her however she gestured he should stop.

“No. Don’t hand it to me directly. Just in case.” At his utter bemusement, she explained, “We have to keep further apart, so it’s clear you’re doing me charity.” She rested against the lamppost. “If you come closer, any who might see will assume you’re paying me as a customer.”

It took a full moment to grasp what the issue was. “I don’t care if anyone thinks I’m...visiting you,” he scoffed. “Truth is I’m rather careless of my staid gentlemanly reputation, at present.”

Never mind there didn’t seem to be anyone around. When it came to gossip and poor timing, London walls often seemed to sprout eyes. But people disliked him already for something very different from licentious behavior; being denounced as a moral degenerate might almost be a nice change of pace.

“You want to do me a favor, now I’ll do you one,” she countered. “Reputation, like money, seems simple matter to anyone who’s never known the lack. Ever had someone cross the street to avoid walking near you, with a look like you smell foul? Ever been denied entry to a church?”

“Not yet, as I’m aware, and I rarely visit churches anyway - but I take your point.” It seemed to matter to her, if not him; reason enough to humor her.

He came only into the encircled glow of the lamplight, bills folded between two gloved fingers at the end of full stretch of his arm.

Her smile almost sweet, she put her arm out as well, reaching up with cupped hand.

“There you are. Close enough to slip it into my pocket, that invites trouble - like this, it’s honorable charity.”

She barely looked at the bills, though he noticed her testing the edges with thumb before putting them out of sight. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one with ingrained habits.

“Well. A deal’s a deal - and I’m more than happy to get home.” She shivered.

“I hope you don’t have to walk very far. And, nowhere too...unsafe.”

“Nah, not really. And, not for someone who knows the way around, it’s not.”

Her manner was more restrained than before she’d realized who he was, but some friendliness and mirth was back. It shouldn’t have mattered - still, it made the weight on him feel slightly less.

“You, though; make an obvious target for a mugging if I ever saw one. I hope you can find a cab.”

“At this hour?”

“Head that way.” She pointed. “There’s a coffeehouse, they like to lurk around there when it gets cold.”

“Thank you then, for the help.”

Scrooge lifted his hat to her. She’d started moving away down the side-street, almost sauntering. But she paused and touched a hand to the pocket of money, tittering at his formality.

“Thank _you_ , for the late Christmas present! Safe travels, friend.”

It was clear the address was more a jest than anything. Still, it made him realize something.

“Oh - conversational nicety,” he scolded himself aloud, remembering - even if it didn’t matter, they’d been speaking for too long for it to have gone without a thought: “I never got your name! Miss-?”

She paused, shaking her head like he was being silly.

“It’s Ledford. But no one ever calls me that.”

Realizing he truly was serious about an answer, she laughed.

“My name’s Belle.”

She turned, smile vanishing behind her bonnet as she waltzed off into the snow. Despite the cold, he stood there watching until she was well out of sight.

Noticing, she called back in cheerful farewell-

“Have a happy New Year, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge!”


	4. Tremendous Family

_"You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the Spirit._

_"Never," Scrooge made answer to it._

_"Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning - for I am very young - my elder brothers born in these later years?" pursued the Phantom._

_"I don't think I have," said Scrooge. "I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?"_

_"More than eighteen hundred," said the Ghost._

_"A tremendous family to provide for!" muttered Scrooge._

_The Ghost of Christmas Present rose._

_"Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it.” - Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits_

It was disconcerting feeling, waking right on the verge of a bad dream - anxiety from the shadows stirred still vibrating beneath his skin, even as his eyes flew open, jolted to awareness.

But there was a crash somewhere within his rooms, about half past three in the morning, and though faint it carried in the space enough to disturb his sleep.

Ebenezer Scrooge lay there looking up at nothing a moment, before he rose to investigate.

Erasmus had knocked one of the paltry few decorative something-or-others he owned to the floor, breaking it. No point wondering why or how, or trying to recollect what the thing had been and how long it’d been gathering dust on the shelf, for that matter.

No point, either, trying to find cat to scold it, for it’d vanished - and no point trying to go back to sleep.

He got on his knees, picked up the pieces, intending to throw it all into the bin. Probably he should’ve saved it for next time the junk tinker came round, but he didn’t feel the bother.

Halfway through a sharp edge caught him, cutting his palm. He gave a startled sound.

Little more than a scratch, but it did draw blood - he sucked at it, annoyed.

Then, he looked at it. Found himself staring musingly at proof of his mortality.

No, not mortality, he corrected - his _humanity_.

Preposterous as it was, he realized once that he would’ve been almost startled to see himself bleed. Feeling, and any physical awareness of his own body, for good or ill, had been so lost to him.

He could only shake his head, noting quietly, “Astounding.” So many little things, but how they did add up.

He put a plaster on the scrape before getting dressed. Erasmus appeared, entirely unrepentant, for his morning meal. Scrooge frowned at him; the creature acted oblivious to his look.

“Yes, yes, just be about your business then, I suppose,” he grumbled, as the well-fed kitten sat down to groom leisurely by the fire. “And I’ll be about mine.”

It felt odd to work from his house, but might as well begin getting used to it. Once he settled the most important affairs, he was selling the office.

He was no longer certain if he hoped it’d go quickly. Change wasn’t something he’d often indulged in, and he was bringing it on in droves.

But what was to be done? His character had certainly changed - or perhaps his perspective, enough that he _wanted_ his character to change. Whichever it was, carrying on as before was impossible.

At least his new life guaranteed he’d be anything but idle - for a time. What he’d do once the last ledger was balanced, the last penny transferred; furniture sold and books boxed up, hearth swept for the final time, the names of both Scrooge and Marley removed from column beside the door and the last irate former associate convinced to go away…well. He’d a lot to accomplish before then, so for now he’d keep putting aside uncertainty as a challenge for another day.

There were after all only about a hundred things to do first.

He began looking through papers associated with his personal assets. A meeting with his solicitor was needed - his will required immediate updates. Everything from the partnership would’ve gone to Jacob and he’d neglected to list any other beneficiary.

As the only thing resembling a legal heir, it should’ve defaulted to Fred - but without actual statement anywhere, his nephew might’ve been tied up in the devil’s nest that was the Court of Chancery for any time. Considering the amount at stake, the unscrupulous characters that’d circled through Scrooge’s life over the years, it could’ve easily become an ordeal.

Worse: that wasn’t oversight, or indifference. He’d deliberately left the matter of inheritance murky.

It’d given him spiteful amusement, picturing the money he’d never used himself kept from doing anyone else any good, either.

It hardly seemed possible, Scrooge thought morosely - that he could inhabit the same flesh as the man he’d been before. That two such different creatures could be facets of the same person.

At almost exactly six came an odd rapping at the front door. It took time to register, but it kept persisting with pauses about twenty or thirty seconds apart.

Opening the door, he found an anxious-looking lower class girl wearing probably the nicest clothes she owned.

“Good day, sir. Begging your pardon,” she said in distinct Irish accent, “but I’m looking for a Mr. Scrooge?”

“Ah - you must be here about the maid’s position,” he recognized.

“Aye, sir. I...I’m sorry, sir. About the door,” she explained haltingly, at his puzzled look - whether the loudness of her knocking or how long it’d been, wasn’t quite clear; “But, your knocker-”

“Oh.” He glanced at it - still cracked, making use impossible. “Of course. Someone should be coming by tomorrow to fix it. Nevermind,” he reassured her. “Come inside.”

He brought her into the first-floor space that served as his home office. He looked over the letter of character she’d brought, she waited while he read; silent, hands folded - somehow vibrating nervousness while yet keeping herself perfectly still.

She was an almost frail small-boned thing, faded freckles across her cheeks and upturned nose. Beneath her kerchief was light red hair pulled back into neat a bun as could be managed.

He would’ve been tempted to describe her as mousey, but honestly couldn’t tell how much of that was her actual features, or the timid personality every glance clearly transmitted.

“How old are you, Miss Jenny?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

He held letter at an angle to note her responses, without making it so obvious he was watching her face.

“And you are a recent transplant to London, I’m given to understand?”

“Aye, sir. Not yet five months it’s been, sir.”

“You started your current employment immediately then, it would appear.”

She hesitated - unsure, it seemed, if that was a question or not. “Aye, sir,” she hurried to cover the pause. “My family came here to work, sir, and try earning our way to something better. I set out to find something quick as I could.”

He made a terse thoughtful sound. “Well, the matron who supervised you has only good things to say. A Mrs…” he pretended uncertainty about the handwriting; “...Kellogg?”

“Keller, sir,” she corrected in politest of tones.

Her nervousness, he decided, had nothing to do with duplicity. She was only intimidated about the interview. Likely his manner wasn’t helping, but well - one couldn’t work constant miracles.

It was _pro forma_ for him to quiz would-be servants about their references, because it wasn’t unheard of for someone dismissed without character to have an acquaintance forge one. It was astonishing how many who attempted that didn’t bother ensuring they knew the facts the fake would contain - it wasn’t the lying that offended him, so much as the sloppiness.

Satisfied with the letter, he set it aside.

“You arrived here very early this morning, Miss Jenny. I mean that as a good thing,” he added, when she actually managed to get paler.

“I would’ve been here earlier, sir. Only as I didn’t want to accidentally wake you.”

Indication of forethought, on her part - she knew he lived alone, and in most fine households only the servants were up before six.

“Well I keep the hours of bankers and clerks, and I like to start my day quickly. Normally I am awake by four, and I leave for work well before six. I prefer my maids arrive before I’m gone so that I know they were here at all - therefore in this household starting time is at four-thirty. Would that be a problem?”

“No, sir.” Either she wanted the job so badly, or she’d hidden objection well from her face.

Then again if anyone in her family worked at a factory, perhaps she didn’t think that early at all.

“I do prefer promptness, which so far for you doesn’t appear to be a problem. It’s mentioned in the letter that your preferred half-day is Sunday, owing to...religious reasons.”

He was proud of himself for restraining to slight pause; previously he’d have been unable to keep from saying something snide.

“Aye, sir.” Her voice dropped, likewise her gaze to the floor. She was bracing for rejection - five months in London, time enough to learn what Catholics were thought of.

Nevermind everyone wanted Sunday off because of religion, for the most part - the subject even arising likely never meant anything good for her.

“I’ve no objection to you taking your half on Sunday. In fact, you might as well have the whole day - the place will hardly fall apart for one skipped day of tidying.”

That got a startled glance. It wasn’t unheard of, but it landed on the side of generous.

Likewise what he offered her as weekly salary - higher end of standard but not extravagant. He intended to be a decent employer, not an indulgent one. She was still there to work.

“If that is to your liking, you may start Monday morning,” he concluded.

“Aye, sir.” She nodded, lifting her head again; fingers wrung together tightly betraying her relief.

“Very good.” He picked up a small lamp. “Come with me and I’ll show you around.”

They walked the length of his rooms; her a mostly silent presence as he gave instructions.

“The size of the space might seem intimidating, but as you see I own little in way of furniture or adornment, so it should be more than manageable. You may decide for yourself in what order you wish to clean the rooms; I only desire they be done once a week, as is standard practice. I am rather particular about my things - be careful you put items back exactly where they were when you polish or dust them.”

“Aye, sir. O-of course.”

“I will provide whatever supplies you require to do your duties. They will be kept here, in a cupboard; it is your responsibility to keep that cupboard tidy, and be aware if anything needs replacing. Your uniform will be the usual - browns or greys, with a clean cap and apron. I hope to see you properly attired on Monday; if you do not already own such items, you may purchase them with my credit and,” he caught himself, preemptively editing; “it will _not_ be deducted from your wages - it’s a small enough matter. But do see that you have any bill itemized.”

“Aye, sir.”

“In the coming months I intend to retire, from my business - so my hours will begin regular and, perhaps, become increasingly less so. I expect you to keep to your schedule regardless. If I am home while you are about I may ask you to attend a fire for me, or prepare tea - perhaps a small meal on occasion; cold items only, no real cooking to speak of. You have no objection to this?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Outside that, you won’t have any that could be considered social duties - I don’t have guests or throw parties. For the most, you’ll simply do your work and ignore my presence, save when I’ve specific need of you. I will provide you your own key, which you will use to let yourself in and out - you may use the front door. You will keep this key on you at all times you are working, and never take it anywhere but your home when you are not. You understand?”

“Aye, sir.”

He felt a distracted twinge - most, by now, would’ve corrected that _‘aye’_. Servants weren’t expected to do much speaking; still, degree of properness was wanted. That accented _‘aye’_ would never be allowed, firmly instructed to replacement with good English _‘yes’_.

He weighed his choices - trying to deduce if he actually cared.

He decided while he would’ve certainly said something, before, it would’ve only been for excuse to be nasty to her. He was hardly some fussy mistress, fretting how a servant’s manners might reflect badly on the house.

“I think that should cover everything then. Have you any further questions?”

She thought and hesitated. “Oh, I - the cat, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“I - I notice there’s a cat, sir. Am I to let him in or out at all? Should I be about feeding him?”

“No, he’s not to go outside,” Scrooge quickly answered. “Be careful not to let him. And if you notice him clawing at something do stop him, gently. Feeding and such however will not be your responsibility; you needn’t concern yourself.”

“Aye, sir.”

Back where they started, he should’ve let her show herself out. He hesitated. He’d been such a terrible master to Bob Cratchit, not to mention his previous maids, he was fretful to start off right.

He’d so little experience even trying, however, he wasn’t sure what that entailed.

“Miss Jenny - the woman who referred you to me, she mentioned a larger family? You have siblings?”

“Oh - aye, sir. Three brothers.” She realized he wanted her to continue. “There’s Johnny, he’s twelve. He's apprenticed with our father as a carpenter. And then Danny and Michael, they’re seven and five. They work at a mill.”

He almost cringed - factory conditions were often bad, but children tending machines at a mill possibly had the worst. “Your whole family is required to help make a living?”

“Not exactly, sir. We can’t afford schooling for the two littler ones, so my Da says they might as well be earning. That’s part of the reason I wanted to go into service. Plan was I’d go work with my Mum - she’s a seamstress. But I should make more this way, and I’d hoped to put some aside for their fees.”

“Your father will let them quit working, so long as their way is paid?”

“Aye, sir.” She nodded. “He’s already promised.”

“Well if you want to save most effectively, you should start upfront,” he suggested. “I can help you figure that out.”

“I - sir? F-forgive me, sir, but, I...I don’t follow.”

He got out a piece of paper, a pencil. “Now, we know what you make from the start - that’s your income. Next we determine how much you’ll be giving to your family, and anything else you anticipate to regularly spend - required expenses.”

She was staring at him, bewildered.

“It’s a rudimentary budget,” he explained. “You track both income and expenses, deduct one from the other. By keeping track of it all, it becomes easier to notice any patterns, places you can trim excess; easier to ensure nothing gets misplaced.”

No response. It seemed he’d confused her to meek speechlessness. Sighing, he set down the pencil.

“Something simpler, then. How about,” he thought aloud, “we focus on the saving: determine an amount you can spare and I’ll deduct it for you. I won’t _keep_ it, I’ll...I’ll put a jar, here, on the shelf.”

He pointed.

“You can check it, whenever you like, without fear of offense. At end of each week when you’re paid I’ll add it in for you. Three pennies, perhaps? Do you think that acceptable amount, Miss Jenny?”

His expectant query was met with more silence - it took her a moment to manage even a stammer.

“I...sir, I’m sorry, I...I d-don’t…”

He’d gone too far the other way, Scrooge realized. By being too interested, too helpful when that wasn’t expected, he’d overwhelmed and perhaps even actually frightened her.

“Oh...nevermind.” He eyed her, wary of somehow making it worse. “I...I will see you on Monday, then?”

She shakily managed, “Aye, sir.”

“Right, then.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You may go.”

“Aye, sir.”

She practically fled. Weakly, he called after her, “Have a happy New Year, Miss Jenny!”

“Aye, sir!”

He heard the door slam. He leaned head against hand with a groan.

“How much do you suppose the lesson fees are, for how to interact with other people?” Looking up, he asked Erasmus, who sat watching from the corner, “Do you think there’s schooling in that?”

The kitten gave dismissive meow.

“No,” Scrooge agreed, scowling dejectedly. “I thought not.”

The rest of Friday passed. On Saturday he stood by an upstairs window, watching the great deal of activity in the street.

Well-dressed gentlemen callers began rounds for drinks before the sun even went down. Poorer citizens trod the pavement soon after, outlandish costumes making it clear they were on their way to the public balls. Happy and rowdy voices echoed from outside, words senseless.

The last thing anyone wanted to be on New Year’s was home, alone. Superstition held whatever one was doing at midnight predicted their entire year.

In years past Scrooge ignored this thinking, of course. Always he was in his rooms by himself at New Year’s eve; sometimes he even went to bed - an act most would avoid with horror, since that could foretell a year of illness.

Hard to say if what was promised had happened. He hadn’t been sick; though he’d never made sure there was money in his pocket as others did, he’d certainly never known a year of poverty as consequence.

But he’d spent years exactly as he’d been at each midnight - miserable, in the dark and cold, alone.

Could a man visited by spirits afford to tempt fate by bucking common superstition? Perhaps not.

He hadn’t gotten new clothes beforehand, save for his muffler, but he dressed in one of his better suits and went out.

Lights blazed from the windows, laughter chased through the alleys like music on the wind. As at Christmas people greeted strangers with friendliness and cheer, and despite the weather he found he was plenty comfortable bundled in his coat. He walked the streets, taking everything in.

At midnight bells rang. From everywhere came sound of doors being thrown open - people shouted _“Happy New Year!”_ to the night and threw down puddings and cakes to invite a year of plenty into their households.

He stood there listening and half-smiled.

It wouldn’t be so terrible, he decided, if this was how his year went - surrounded by merriment, witness to the happiness of many.

The celebrations would carry into the next day, for some. He left the public squares, taking the long way home.

As he passed Threadneedle he glanced the direction of the Bank of England. No one else around, at first, though after a moment he spotted a pale figure in the distance going the other way.

It wouldn’t have caught his notice, save for they appeared very tall. He watched with vague curiosity - if they passed close to a sign hanging from a shop front, he might be able to guess their height.

Except the figure never got near one of the signs. He half-blinked, as he gazed idly - and suddenly, they were gone.

There was nothing for the man - for it’d looked like a man - to disappear behind. Yet he’d vanished, utterly.

Scrooge stood there, peering up and down the lane, frowning perplexedly.

Until he remembered something.

Half a century ago there’d been a giant of a man by name of Jenkins - so the story went - employed as a clerk at the Bank of England. Before he’d died he’d begged to be interred beneath the floor there, to keep his body safe from being stolen as a medical curiosity.

Supposedly, he’d gotten his wish. And supposedly, people had been spotting his ghost in the area ever since.

Scrooge felt a chill that’d nothing to do with the weather. He turned around at once, walked quickly the rest of the way home.

As he climbed into bed, his heart was still pounding slightly.

It could’ve been a coincidence. Yet he was sure he hadn’t been seeing things.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how many ghosts were said to be in London - for it was a very high number, for a man with heightened awareness to spirits.

At least he fell asleep relatively quickly; though habit still had him up at four, despite the late evening. A shame - for the past week, he’d greatly enjoyed awaking in the morning fully rested.

Hardly the first time he’d gone without, but - he considered. It _was_ Sunday. He’d almost nothing else to do.

He rolled over, pulled comforter over his head, went back to sleep.

He didn’t wake again until after ten, which made him about feel about as sumptuous and indolent as a Roman Emperor.

Well, he was allowed a passing spell, he supposed - things would be normal again tomorrow.

Indeed they were. It was Monday - more than a week had passed since that strange, frightful, wondrous Christmas Eve. And the rest of the world kept on going, unawares.

Jenny did indeed arrive half past the hour - he’d almost wondered if he’d scared her off completely. But no; she was there and let herself in, went about her work. He avoided her gaze, muttered a sheepish greeting as she passed by him.

Otherwise they ignored one another - as it was meant to be, he reasoned with some regret.

He went to work, the only noteworthy thing how he paused the first time he wrote down the date, taking it in: 1844.

Tuesday proceeded also as normal, but he closed the office early again. He’d a visit to pay.

He was walking the streets when he spotted Hooper and Thwaites standing at a corner, hats almost bumping as heads bent together in conversation.

“Mr. Thwaites, Mr. Hooper!” He headed towards them. “I was just on my way to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Scrooge.” Thwaites tilted hat with absent politeness. “Around teatime is the worst time to look for us in the office - we prefer to break for our meal elsewhere.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Scrooge.” Hooper eyed him mildly. “And how was your visit to Baltham?”

He frowned. “It was horrible, as you knew well it would be,” he responded with terse irritation.

Hooper and Thwaites exchanged a glance; he found himself wondering if he’d been the subject of another wager. If so, they’d decency at least not to exchange prize money in front of him.

“I did as you asked,” Scrooge continued. “It had the impact on me I would imagine you predicted. And yet, here I still stand.” He waved hand in impatient, demanding fashion. “So. Are you satisfied?”

“Are _you_ satisfied, Mr. Scrooge?” Thwaites countered. Neither he nor Hooper looked very impressed.

“Oh I see,” he exhaled, realizing. “Yes, now I understand: it’s not the limits of my _endurance_ , necessarily, that you’ve been testing. No, it was something else. My commitment, perhaps? My...sense of obligation?”

They didn’t say anything, merely continued watching him. Thwaites was frowning, eyes narrowed - Hooper was giving him an almost nonchalant, skeptical look.

Scrooge clenched his jaw on one side, feeling less and less compunction about visibly showing his frustration.

“Gentlemen - all my years of experience, of which you know, with ledgers and account books. Do you really think I don’t know an _insurmountable debt_ , when I see one?” he said, thinly. “Do you think I can’t realize when there is no hope of turnaround - no choice but to forget about recovering the losses, and start over? Except I don’t really mean ‘start over’ - it remains part of one’s credit, forever. There is no changing it.”

He set his mouth stiffly.

“All one can do is try better in the future. That has to be good enough, in its own right.”

He could see by their expressions they’d understood his metaphor. It’d taken both aback, perhaps, to hear him state so frankly that he knew his past was unsalvageable.

Thwaites’ frown lost its hardened edge; Hooper’s gaze drifted aside, reluctantly contemplative.

“So, no, perhaps it’s not about making up for lost time - but still, time _is_ a factor.” He weighed his next words, couldn’t stop the sharp irony that crept in: “This is not a game. Other people’s lives, they are not games to be toyed with, even supposing one has the authority to do so.”

“No one here ever suggested that they were,” Hooper responded, startled and defensive.

Scrooge held his tongue a moment. “Perhaps not. But I have had a tiring series of days recently, and it’s hard to think they will get any less tiring as I go. And I am done laboring without a worthy goal visible to be accomplished by it.” He tried to soften his manner, somewhat. “The offer I made is still on the table. But if you continue to find me so untrustworthy, or my money so distasteful - then I will simply endeavor to find someone else. A good day to you both, gentlemen.”

He turned and walked off.

He got far enough away he’d no chance of hearing them - no way of knowing if they said something to one another, or merely exchanged another glance.

“Mr. Scrooge!” Thwaites called out to him.

He stopped and looked back.

“We’ll be in touch,” Hooper told him - not a dismissal, a promise.

Scrooge lifted his hat to them, unable to keep from making the gesture mildly sardonic. “Thank you!”

Hooper nodded, tiredly, and Thwaites actually smirked; as if to say that was perhaps deserved.

After he left them Scrooge tried to decide if he wanted to go back to work.

Well no, he didn’t have to decide: he _didn’t_ want to. Rather, he was trying to make up his mind if he should persuade himself to all the same.

This was hardly point in his life to start the habit of bucking responsibilities. And yet - Thwaites had mentioned teatime. A break surely wouldn’t hurt that much, would it?

Instead of heading back he turned direction opposite, towards Trafalgar Square. The streets were more crowded here, naturally, thronged with those running errands and taking the main thoroughfare from one destination to another.

He made himself notice the people as he went, endeavoring to not slip back into ignoring them - or worse, perceiving them as obstacles; nuisances. Without staring too long at anyone particular he took note of faces and voices, the signs beneath the surface of their lives - plans, hopes, dreams. He took in every varied expression of intention and feeling. Men joked; children were scolded by nannies; women spoke to shopkeepers or exchanged pleasantries with each other.

At one corner three such women had gathered - his gaze bounced back after first sliding by. One in faded yellow with cheap flowers on her bonnet, the second in stained red and a hat with an obnoxiously tall feather - but the third woman, standing opposite…

She laughed at something the others said. Dressed modestly for shopping she appeared different enough he hadn’t been certain, but he felt more sure of the laugh.

She hugged her two companions, saying goodbyes. Then turning she shouldered her basket, headed off alone.

Scrooge crossed the street, ending up behind her. It took half a block before the crowds dispersed enough he could get closer - and he worked up the nerve to be social.

“Miss Ledford?”

She spun, recognition surprised. “Oh, Mr. Ebenezer! It’s you who’s been trailing behind me?”

“You knew I was back there?”

“Oh, sure. I keep my wits about me, things like that.” She’d stopped walking until he caught up, then fell into easy pace alongside. “It’s broad daylight though, so I was more curious than I was worried.”

“Well, good, the last thing I wanted was to scare you.”

“I didn’t say I was scared,” she corrected. “I’m a woman who’s long accustomed to walking around on her own. The trick is if anyone ever tries to grab you, you flit away too fast.”

“And if ever they should manage to grab you, what then?”

Her response was confident. “If it’s a woman you make your fingers like claws, aim for the eyes. If it’s a man, you kick and aim low - very low. As hard as you can.”

“Well,” he admitted, “that would certainly dissuade most.”

“Certainly, indeed.” She smiled at him. “But fancy running into you!”

“Yes, I wasn’t sure that was you at first - suppose I had to come closer just to see for myself.”

“Bet you never thought you’d see me in this part of town, is that it?” she teased. “Especially when there’s light still in the sky!”

He protested, “Oh no, it...it isn’t that - I know even you must have errands, from time to time…”

“Indeed I do,” she chirped. “Speaking of, as you can see I put your gift to good use.”

Already she looked healthier, less harried. Better meals and maybe a warmer fire, the last few days. Her dress likely hadn’t been bought new, but the fabric was clean and if it’d been patched it was done well enough he couldn’t discern. Her shawl was free of holes; she’d proper gloves and a new bonnet.

“Now let’s see.” She touched her hat. “This one cost me-”

“There’s no need to give me an accounting, Miss Ledford,” Scrooge cut her off, firm. “The money was gifted to you to do with as you pleased. After that, I’ve naught to do with it - you owe me no explanations.”

“Still, it must please you to see I spent it so wisely,” she replied. “Expert on investments, as you are.”

“It does please me, but only because you look happy and well,” he informed her politely.

“Oh, well. Thank you again, then, I suppose - for noticing. What did I tell you though, sir - it’s Belle. I’ve never been a ‘Miss Ledford’; the amount of time I could hold on adult formality was too small a window to grow used to the idea. The only people who I let call me ‘Miss Ledford’ work for the census.”

“Well, _Miss Belle,_ then,” he compromised, “since mentioning formality, I notice you don’t seem to like using it towards others.”

“Oh, didn’t offend you, did I?” she asked, offhand - clearly didn’t care if she had. “It’s only as I’d rather think of anyone I know enough to be on speaking terms with as my friend.”

“I suppose it doesn’t bother me,” he mused. “I haven’t been addressed that way since well before my father died. What an amount of time has passed, since then.”

“I wonder what you were like as a lad. Terror of the schoolyard, perhaps, leader of a little gang?”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.” He had to chuckle. “I was...something of a shy child, in truth. I played games with the others, yes, but…” He tried not to think how he’d eventually withdrawn, the reasons why. “Mostly I preferred to read.”

“I can see that, actually.” She smiled as she thought. “Yes; tucked under the shade of a tree on a hot day, or sitting by the window, nose lost in a book. Off having adventures in your own world. What was your favorite?”

“I had many favorites. I was particularly fond for a time of _The Arabian Nights._ ”

“Oh, I love that one,” she enthused. “Especially the part about Sinbad, and all his adventures. Like with the giant bird - so big it blots out the sun, and carried elephants off in its claws? The, the-”

“The roc,” he supplied.

“Yes, that’s it!”

“The tales of Sinbad’s voyages were good - I was a bit more attached to Ali Baba. I read his part alone over and over.”

“Ali Baba was also a bold adventurer, and something of a wily fellow, to boot,” she agreed happily. “But then, I always love any good story. Written down or otherwise. Stories can pull your mind away from all sorts of cares.”

“Indeed they can,” he murmured - thoughts wandering back to Ali Baba, the spirit that’d impersonated him for a time.

Stories could give hope, charming illusion, perhaps - which was nice. But they couldn’t _save_ anyone.

Noticing his pensive silence, she pressed on, “Anyway. I don’t think I’d like to call you ‘Mr. Scrooge’ - I’d almost feel I was insulting you. It sounds like some slang I heard once; it’s an old word for _squeeze_ , isn’t it?”

“Fallen out of the lexicon of good spoken English perhaps, but you may be right,” he said reluctantly. He’d forgotten about that; he tried not to think how anyone who knew him would react to learning it.

“Name’s are funny things, aren’t they? My name’s - not actually Belle, it’s Mary. I mean, that’s what my mother named me. But there’s lots of Marys and, well, better if the gents have easy time finding you, when they care to look. So, I’ve been ‘Belle’ for awhile now. I don’t think I could ever be anyone else.”

“Yes, I don’t think I could ever call you ‘Mary’,” he responded woodenly. Trying not to get lost in thought again he informed her, lightly as he could manage, “‘Ebenezer’ is from the Bible, as many names are - it means ‘ _the stone of help_ ’.”

“Does it really?” she asked. He nodded, and she seemed pleased. “Well! Isn’t that nice.”

They walked on, her looking in windows, untroubled; his arms folded behind him stiffly - trying not to be conscious how long it’d been since he’d escorted a woman anywhere.

Not that she needed an escort, but still.

“Pardon me, but you’ve something on the inside of your overcoat.” Glancing down, she pointed.

He lifted the fabric, saw white fur on the bottom hem. “Oh. That’d be Erasmus.”

“What’s an Erasmus?”

“My cat.”

“You’ve a cat?”

“Yes. A recent addition to my household.”

“Seems you’ve been making many recent changes,” she observed.

“It is the season for it,” he responded mildly.

“Indeed it is.” In friendly fashion she asked, “How was your New Year?”

“It was fine, thank you. How was yours?”

“Likewise. I was out with some of the other girls. What about you, did you have a big party?”

“No, not at all. Do I seem the type?” he went disbelievingly.

“Honestly, Mr. Ebenezer, I’m not at all sure what type you are,” she remarked. “Though, so far I’ve enjoyed finding out.”

Scrooge had no idea how to react to that. Least of all because it seemed she might’ve just given him a compliment.

He cleared his throat. “What are you on your way to do, if I might ask?”

“Nothing too exciting. I need to get hairpins, and half a dozen other odds and ends.” Concern evidently genuine, she went, “You don’t have to follow me if I’m keeping you from something important.”

“Oh, no; I recollect I’ve some purchases to make also, so this takes me the right direction.”

“You were also going shopping in the Lowther Arcade?” Doubtful amusement. “What for?”

He gave a shrewd smile, wordlessly scolding her for implying he was lying. “Belated Christmas presents. For my nephew’s children.”

“Oh, how lovely!” That cheered her. “Shame you missed seeing them at Christmas, though. But a nice gift will make up for it. What’re you thinking?”

“Ah - what?”

“Well, to get for them. What are your ideas?”

His face fell. “Goodness. Honestly, I have none at all.”

“Well what do they like?” she asked, incredulous at his helplessness.

“I...I don’t know,” he had to admit. “I’ve never met them. Not even once.”

“Oh.” Now she really was at a loss. “Do they live very far away?”

He cringed, not liking how he’d have to answer. “No. They live right here in London. They have their entire lives - since my nephew set up his household some years ago. But I’ve...never seen them. I’ve never been to their house.”

Belle stared at him, making no effort to hide the reproach she felt to hearing that.

“The affairs of my business aren’t the only part of my life where I currently endeavor to make changes,” Scrooge told her, weary and wry.

“Apparently so.” She frowned. “Guess it _is_ good you ran into me today: you need all the help you can get.”

“Oh - oh no,” he objected. “Miss Belle, you aren’t needed to-”

“Don’t be silly. It’s obvious you’ve no idea what you’re doing. And if you’re trying to make up for many years of neglect in one go, then you’ve gotta get this right.”

He’d opened his mouth to argue more - her last statement silenced him with alarm.

Possibly she was joking. But - he couldn’t tell. What if she wasn’t? Worse, what if she was right?

Belle was looking around, contemplating which way to go. Once she decided, she didn’t indicate what direction they were turning - grabbing his elbow she pushed him, lightly, until he moved.

When Scrooge was too astonished to keep walking she clasped his wrist and pulled him along in her wake. The whole time she kept speaking, as if nothing were amiss.

“Anyway I’m happy to help - I love buying presents; shopping for other people’s the most fun shopping. And looking around at gifts for children? Well, what could make it better than that?”

“Spending someone else’s money?” he couldn’t stop from accusing, dizzy with affronted disbelief.

She didn’t argue. “That doesn’t hurt.”

They approached a storefront guarded by columns shaped like tin soldiers, with a big round window full of cloth dolls and block castles and kites. Golden letters spelled out _TOYLAND_ overhead.

“Here we are, then.”

“Miss Belle-” he protested, feebly; he was feeling he hadn’t prepared emotionally for this.

She paid about as much heed as the spirits at Christmas had. He’d a bad notion as to the result if he tested her resolve any further; pulling his hand free he followed inside of his own volition.

It was after the holiday, probably the reason they were the only customers inside. The _store_ itself however wasn’t empty. Shelves upon shelves, display after display - toy instruments and tea sets, wind-ups and puppets, all sorts of kits and models, an endless menagerie of animals captured in soft fabric or painted wood.

“O-oh. There is so - _so_ much.” Scrooge gaped at his surroundings, petrified.

Everything was bright and shining and glad and - the _variety_. Toys had changed in thirty-some years. Today’s child had options he never would’ve dreamed of.

He’d presence of mind to know how ridiculous it was - how pathetic, even - he was standing overwhelmed by a toy shop. But he couldn’t help it. This whole endeavor was so far away from anything he’d permitted himself to experience, in so long.

A shopkeeper approached; Belle waved them off. “No, we’re fine, thank you!”

Turning around, she finally noticed the look on his face.

“Do I need to remind you how to breathe?”

“I - I can’t recall the last time I bought a gift for anyone. Let alone something important.”

“Oh, well…they’re children.” She bent by some rocking horses, gloved hand lightly resting on one’s head so it moved. “Not that their feelings should be dismissed, far from it. But almost no one forgives so easily as children.”

“Except when they don’t,” he countered. “They hold grudges like none other.”

She stood up. “Then we will just have to be sure you make the right choices.”

“You say it like it’s easy,” he responded with irony.

That got a shrug, a near-smirk. “We’ll go through one at a time. Now please tell me, Mr. Ebenezer, you know _something_ useful, such as their ages…”

No point in informing her he hadn’t prior to Christmas. He shut his eyes to better recall and recite, “Peter, twelve; Mathilde, eleven; Ricky, nine; Charlotte, six.”

“The littlest girl - that’s easy.” She strolled purposefully through the shop. He trailed her as his lifeline. “Get her a stuffed cat, or a dolly. No little girl doesn’t enjoy playing with dolls.”

“My older sister didn’t,” he found himself saying. “Well - she did, but she liked cutting hers apart.”

Belle shot startled look over her shoulder. He managed a smile.

“She was playing at performing surgery.”

“Ohh.” She remarked, in a knowing fashion, “Seems cleverness runs in the family then.”

He was still puzzling over how to respond when they reached a tower of dolls with painted faces, wearing what even he recognized as a version of the Queen’s wedding dress. Plucking one up, Belle handed it to him.

“There! This is a nice one. What do you think?”

He held the doll in both hands and almost at arm’s length, not feeling particularly enthused.

He knew nothing of dolls, or girl children, but while expensive and well-made this seemed so...joyless. He was vaguely aware older girls collected fine dolls for their fashions, but wouldn’t a young child want something she was free to be rough with? To hug?

“I don’t know,” he went slowly. Turning the doll over, he tried finding something about it appealing. “Perhaps we should start instead with the eldest child, Peter?”

A twelve year old boy, that at least was closer to his own experience. He could remember what he’d liked and wanted at twelve - surely?

“Oh no,” Belle shook her head, firm, “work your way up to him. Twelve, that means he’s got a distinct personality - interests. He might be into pirates, or geography, or architecture, or soldiering. If you get him something that’s not to his interest, or worse is one he held previously and has since outgrown, he’ll be terribly offended.”

He stared at her. “Are you trying to help me, or _torment_ me?”

“Maybe a bit of both.”

Her expression was mostly controlled but he caught silent laughter sparkling in her eyes.

He demanded, “Are you enjoying this?”

She looked right at him, unrepentant. “Yes, actually.”

Then she walked away again, leaving him to frown after her.

She was generous enough to aid where needed without having to be asked, it appeared, and confident enough to take charge - but his estrangement to his nephew’s family had clearly offended her sensibilities. Not an unusual reaction, he supposed. So; she was willing to help him fix things, but she didn’t want to go easy on him.

He could see the logic to it. And some taunting was small fee for the assistance - the instant he’d entered the shop he’d realized how truly out of his depth he was.

Looking around again he tried to process it as something other than a threatening mass of color. His eyes landed on another display - pairs of skates.

He barely remembered to put the doll back before he lurched toward it.

“Oh - Miss Belle! Ice skates, that’d be a good present for Ricky, wouldn’t it? The nine year old boy?”

He hopefully grasped for possibility he might have some notion what to do after all. Tim Cratchit was also nine, and despite his physical limitations he’d seemed a normal enough boy in spirit and interests.

“Yeah, there’s a thought.” Belle rested hands on her hips, considering. “He might already have a pair. It’s fine, though - just ask his parents first, aside, before you hand them to him.”

“But,” he objected, “what do I do if it turns out he _does?_ Then his siblings will all have presents, and he’ll be empty-handed!”

“Well then you look at him and go, ‘I’m sorry Ricky, it turns out that I’ve bought you something you already have, by mistake. I’ll have something better for you next time.’ Then maybe offer to let him come pick it out with you, that’ll cheer him.”

He mouthed some of those words to himself, trying to hold onto them.

Belle watched this dubiously. “Should I write that down for you?”

“...It’s a bad sign if I say ‘yes’, isn’t it?” he asked in defeat.

She shook her head, laughing softly. “Oh! You’ve really never given a gift to a child in your entire life, have you?”

“No,” he said. “How do you come to be such an expert?”

Another soft laugh - a different one. “Everyone should give a gift to a child, if they’ve a chance to. It’s a wonderful experience.”

Perhaps she took pity on him at last; her manner was less assertive, more coaxing when she herded him again.

“Come on. That’s one down - three to go.”

Some time later four gifts had been debated and selected, purchased, wrapped in shiny paper by a solicitous employee, and delivered to his house for him.

Since he’d not known time of arrival, no way of knowing how long the whole ordeal had taken. However, a column of troops laying siege to the continent couldn’t have been more fatigued. He led them into a nearby tearoom - ordered a pot to be split between them, sank into a chair and was incapable of speech or eye contact until he’d fortified himself with some Bath buns.

Belle sat there almost daintily, sipping tea she’d added milk to, reading an issue of _Punch_.

“I’m sorry,” Scrooge eventually managed, when he’d energy to be charitable again and recollect she’d done him a favor, “I’ve waylaid your afternoon completely, haven’t I?”

“Not at all,” she assured, setting down her cup. “This was fun! And there’s plenty of light, yet. More than enough time to get to what I have to. If anything this’ll keep me going the rest of the day.” She gestured. “Plus, you’ve paid for my lunch.”

She did seem even happier, _more_ enthusiastic, like the activity had given rather than taken away from her.

At the same time, she studied how he was doing a stupendous impression of a wilted fern.

“I have to say, given everything I’d heard,” she went carefully, “I would’ve thought the reason you kept to yourself was pride, or-”

“Antipathy?” he quipped, swallowing some tea.

She only smiled. “But that’s not it, is it? I mean, that’s not all of it. You really... _don’t_ know what to do about other people. It’s almost like they intimidate you.”

To even say it was piece of boldness, on her part: a man grown, respected for his wealth and position if nothing else, had nothing to be _intimidated_ by in proper society.

Only, she was exactly right. He could no longer recall if he’d always been this way - if the quiet bookishness of his childhood might’ve been something to grow out of, if only he hadn’t decided to wall himself away until he’d forgotten how to have a single civil conversation.

“Figures and sums make sense to me. People on the other hand...they are complex,” he settled for understatement.

“Well that’s what I enjoy about them! People are like puzzles, but you can learn about anything by paying attention.” She leaned chin in her hand. “I like talking to all sorts, even if it’s about nothing.”

“I had a friend like that, once,” he said. There was an early reason he and Marley needed one another - one gifted with numbers, the other in charisma.

They finished their tea and pastries and Belle showed him a cartoon in _Punch_ she thought would amuse him. On the pavement outside they exchanged polite farewells and went their separate ways.

He ended up going back to his office, because there were three hours left, and after his afternoon he needed the dependable reassurances of a balanced ledger.

Ebenezer Scrooge arrived home to find that Jenny must have still been about when the packages arrived, for they’d been brought in, carefully stacked in his study, the door closed - to keep them safe from Erasmus, possibly.


	5. The Corner with the Footstool

_"Fred!" said Scrooge._

_Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account._

_"Why bless my soul!" cried Fred, "who's that?"_

_"It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?"_

_Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when_ he _came. So did the plump sister, when_ she _came. So did every one when_ they _came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness! - Stave Five: The End of It_

With nothing to mark it as special Wednesday should’ve dragged out, but instead it passed quickly.

Before Ebenezer Scrooge knew, it was nighttime; then it was Thursday morning, then Thursday afternoon.

His nervousness about visiting Fred’s for dinner ticked upwards with every stroke of the clock at his office. He tried telling himself he was being foolish, but it was no use.

He looked at the clock, for a wild moment thought about begging it to play another trick on him - those forty minutes it’d banished into nothing, on Christmas Eve, what if it gave those back again?

It was only forty minutes. Forty minutes of sanctity, of peace.

He was no longer sure he wanted to dine with Fred, face his wife, meet his children. What did a houseful of young family have to offer him? He doubted he would have a good time. Why had he ever agreed to-

Where he sat at his desk Scrooge lifted his head, and gazing at the office corridor found he could picture how his nephew looked and sounded on that Christmas Eve - saying what he’d thought was final farewell to his uncle.

They had never _had_ a relationship. He’d never given Fred anything, nor asked for anything in return. Still, Fred had been crushed - by the loss, it could only be, of what _might’ve_ been, since there’d never been anything in reality.

And he remembered how happy Fred looked, when on Christmas Day he’d promised to visit him.

He was not doing this for himself, Scrooge was reminded. What he wanted hardly mattered anymore. This was for Fred, and the chance it might somehow grant him anything.

With that thought, a detached calm washed over him.

Fred did something-or-other for a dried goods manufacturer - on the side of things in an office, where he never set eyes on a single dried good. Scrooge often sneeringly referred to him as ‘poor’ - sometimes right to his face - though he’d always known that couldn’t be strictly true. After all Fred had been able to afford a wife, and then children.

He was doing better perhaps than Scrooge realized, for their house was nicer end of modest, their neighborhood well-appointed. He’d taken a cab, since there was no chance of walking.

It seemed they could still only afford a girl, not a proper butler - as that was what greeted him at the door, let him inside, and left to go retrieve her master.

“Uncle Ebenezer! Goodness, what’s all this?”

Soon as he appeared, Fred reached to take some of the packages that almost hid his uncle’s face from view.

“Christmas presents, for the children. I’m sorry that they’re...late.”

“If anything they’ll be thrilled to receive more presents after the holiday,” Fred enthused. “Come with me, we’ve still got the tree up in the parlor. We can set them under it.”

“Oh, you - you have a _tree._ You do have a tree,” Scrooge observed, once he saw it.

Unable to do anything but confirm its existence and stare.

“Yes. Isn’t it lovely?” Fred grinned. “It’s the biggest one we could fit in this room. Had great fun, getting it in through the back door - almost thought we might have to take it off the hinges.”

The tree had conquered nearly a third of the room, making a cosy parlor seem even smaller. It was draped in garlands, festooned with glass baubles and candles and dried fruit.

Scrooge couldn’t even smell the burning of the hearth over the scent of pine.

“I don’t know how I feel, about this new trend of indoor trees at Christmas,” he finally commented, attempting polite honesty. “I know it’s very fashionable, but it seems so...provincial. I really don’t think it will last. A few years, at most.”

“It _is_ very fashionable,” Fred agreed. “I like it. It’s nice to see some greenery inside, in the midst of a bleak winter. And anyway,” he took the last presents, “it’s a German tradition, and so is Emilia’s family.”

“They are?”

He hadn’t paid much attention, but was sure he’d have remembered his nephew marrying an immigrant.

“Well, distantly German, only a little,” Fred went in tone of one confiding interesting matters, “but that ‘little’ once served as lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Kent, apparently. So her parents are very keen to play it up. As if either of them has ever been to that country or speaks a word of the language!”

“Ah,” Scrooge went - uncertain how to react, though Fred obviously found that all so amusing.

“There we go.” Fred admired the arrangement he’d made. “It’s like a second Christmas. I’d ask what you got for them, but I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”

“Actually,” he hurried to act on the reminder, “I should ask you - does Ricky own a pair of ice skates? That’s what I got him, but someone told me I should - well it occurred that he might already have some.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’ll be beside himself; he’s been asking after a pair for awhile now!”

Unexpected triumph swelled within him. “Has he?”

“Yes. His mother kept saying no. She’s very protective, and hates the idea of the children doing anything that could lead to rough-housing or get them dirty. Oh, but don’t worry,” Fred saw his consternation, “she can’t hardly refuse now, can she? Not when they’re a gift from somebody else.”

“Yes,” Scrooge managed, positive emotion plummeting.

He understood little of families - but sneaking inappropriate gifts under the nose of the niece-by-marriage who already seemed inclined to dislike him, was not the impression he’d wanted to make.

Fred was smiling, but there was an awkward tension: he perhaps didn’t even know what to say, wary of driving off his previously antisocial uncle.

Scrooge cleared his throat, hating it’d fallen to him to speak first.

“Thank you again, Fred, for inviting me.”

“Oh no, don’t...don’t even mention it.” Fred cleared his throat also. “Would you like me to show you a bit of the house?”

“Certainly,” he acquiesced with relief. “Have you lived here long?”

“We moved in around when Ricky was two, right before we knew Charlotte was coming. What good timing that turned out to be, yes? Took us awhile to find something, but even without the crowding we’d never really liked the old house. Too close to the main streets - all that noise. And the light was terrible, everything always looked grey, no matter how we decorated.”

Scrooge had been nodding as if under compulsion, anxious to demonstrate interest - Fred looked back and he stopped, self-conscious.

“In a way, I’m almost glad you never visited until now,” Fred went with thoughtful optimism. “Now the only version of our home you’ll know is one we’re really committed to - one that makes us look like real housekeepers. Not the old house, or those tiny apartments I had to move Emilia into, back when first we married.”

“Why _did_ you get married so young, Fred?” he asked. Inquiry was easier than processing his nephew’s statements. “You were only nineteen, as I recall?”

“Well, because I fell in love,” Fred answered earnestly, in manner to suggest he’d always thought that reason enough.

“Oh - right. Well. Yes. Of course.”

To him that seemed grossly impractical, but then he was also highly unqualified to comment.

Fred showed him the morning room, the study, the front hall, the doorway leading down to the kitchens, the area around the staircase. He was uncommonly proud of decorations and coloring choices, pointing out details in the furniture - unlike most houses where the man grunted and left such decisions to his wife, Fred clearly had taken interest. It was a charming oddity, as traits went; Scrooge was saddened he’d never gotten to know Fred well enough before now to realize it.

“I don’t dare show you the upstairs, Emilia would have my head on a platter,” Fred concluded with great fondness. “Maybe sometime when she’s not around the children can let you peek in their bedrooms. There’s a piece of cleverness how we’ve arranged the shelves in the boys’ room so they can play in there without knocking anything over. Also, in the hallway, there’s a watercolor I snatched up at a bazaar I’m really pleased about. It brings brightness to the space, somehow.”

The notion of inviting a guest into private bedrooms was preposterous. For Fred to talk so meant he really was thinking of him as family.

Scrooge anxiously rubbed his hands, head slightly bowed with shame.

“Uncle?”

“Oh, I...nothing.” At Fred’s confused concern he stopped. “I was thinking of something. It’s not important.” He reached for a subject change. “I should ask you, how was your New Year?”

“It was good. We had guests in and out, a big bowl of punch.” Fred chortled, “Only I made the mistake of stepping out just before midnight and so was stuck a bit in the cold.”

“Oh - oh no,” he glanced at Fred’s lighter hair, understanding, “how unfortunate. With everything you’ve said about her, I would’ve thought your wife wouldn’t hold with such superstitions.”

“Who said anything about her - I didn’t want to jinx my own household. Besides, everyone's a little superstitious about New Year’s. Well...I suppose except you, Uncle.”

“No, I didn’t want to risk it this year, either,” he admitted. “I tucked a coin in my pocket and went out, took a long walk nowhere in particular.”

“Shame you didn’t wander over this way, then. It would’ve saved me trouble of waiting until they fetched the neighbor’s dark-haired coachman to be our first-footer.”

Scrooge had to laugh incredulously as he realized what he was saying. “Mine hasn’t been dark in years!”

Which wasn’t even his real objection, but it seemed fine a place as any to start.

“I think there’s a few strands in there still, enough to count,” Fred insisted, grinning.

He was acting oblivious, but Fred _had_ to be joking – surely? Tradition held the first person through the door into a house after midnight on New Year’s would set a precedent for the whole year.

Scrooge was still looking at his nephew askance when a rustle came from direction of the stairs.

“Ah, here she is,” Fred declared. “I wondered when you’d join us, darling.”

Emilia was no great beauty. Scrooge knew that far from courteous as lingering impressions went, but it was plain-spoken truth. Her figure was thin and so was her face; not enough chin to balance out a long nose which, as a result, could seem beakish. A tendency to hold lips slightly parted made front teeth look larger than they were.

It’d be exaggeration outright to declare her ’ugly’ - but without effort, or affection from the viewer, none would ever see her as better than ‘plain’.

There was nothing in her character for the former - pink dress austere as allowed for fashionable middle-class (a precise amount of trim, not a stitch more), blonde hair in ringlets paired with a chignon to deprive them of any whimsy. And Scrooge having only seen her perhaps three times before, simply hadn’t enough acquaintance with her to cultivate the latter.

Fred however had enthused light in his eyes as he stood beside her, hand gently going to her waist.

“Emilia, you remember my Uncle Ebenezer.” He gestured.

“Yes, of course. Certainly, I recall the name.”

Her smile was that of the polite hostess. It seemed comparatively cutting, against her husband’s geniality.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Emilia.” Scrooge tried to smile hopefully himself, and not feel like he was poised over a beartrap. “Thank you, so much, for having me in your home. I know my visiting is...very belated. It was kind of you to practice such forbearance.”

“It was nothing at all. How could I possibly think to interfere again, when Fred brought me the news. Having you to dine with us, at last; it meant _so_ much to him.”

Her tone was so mild, so calm, yet she’d masterfully woven in pointed emphasis.

Scrooge’s expression faltered.

“Uncle has brought some Christmas presents,” Fred told her, “for the children.”

“Oh, of course. Why wouldn’t he?” Her faint smile would’ve impressed any heartless factory foreman, for it’s coolness. “Buying gifts for them would be a simple matter. Time is what he’s never had to spare, not money; he’s rich enough. I know you’ve observed as much in the past.”

Her voice came evenly and never rose in volume or emotion. It meant the things she said almost sounded like an accident - _almost_. It left one too thrown to react with outright offense.

Fred’s chuckle was discomfited. “It was never said the way that makes it sound,” he assured his uncle, apologetic - on his own behalf. As if what happened went over his head entirely.

As if he was completely unaware he’d married some sort of unnerving mastermind.

“No, I know,” Scrooge managed to reply to his nephew. Whatever he’d thought of Fred, he’d never believed his attentions were a bid for money.

He might’ve given Fred more respect, if he’d believed it - it would’ve been understandable motivation, under his former philosophy.

His gaze darted back to Emilia. She kept her eyes continuously half-lidded. It served the impression she was looking down at someone, despite her not being any taller than Fred.

“Time has ways of slipping away from us,” he tried again, offering humility in a faltering voice. “I make no excuses for my behavior; I’ve held mistaken priorities, and there is no getting back what I might’ve missed. Nor undoing the offenses I might’ve caused. I can only assure you of my intentions to do better in the future, to be there for those who...who would have me.”

There was a pause, during which Fred smiled gently, and Emilia - showed no reaction.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said.

The blandness of those three words was somehow remorseless as a tolling funeral bell.

Scrooge wracked his mind for _what_ he’d said to this woman in the past, because he was certain they’d never exchanged more than a sentence each time. Even with his typical behavior he was dumbfounded he’d managed to leave an impression worth such lasting resentment.

Emilia turned to her husband. “Dinner will not be for a little while. Will you go and wrangle the boys? Please make sure Ricky combs his hair, this time.”

“Yes, of course, gladly. What of the girls? Have our little misses finished their beautifying?”

“I will send them down,” she said, acting deaf to Fred’s humor.

He, likewise, appeared senseless to her demeanor. “Splendid, we can introduce them to Uncle Ebenezer before dinner.”

Both glanced at Scrooge, who tried to avoid his niece-in-law’s direct gaze lest he turn into stone. “I...shall I wait in the parlor, then?”

“Yes. Please do.”

“Just make yourself comfortable, Uncle.” Fred patted his arm. “Be right back.”

He returned to the room, sat furthest from the tree; hoping his posture wasn’t stiff and uncertain as he felt.

Emilia entered, and he had to stop himself from shooting to his feet - she was able to evoke commanding presence while acting indifferent as a soap bubble. Her two daughters walked before her.

“This is Charlotte, and Mathilde.” The younger one curtseyed broadly; the elder’s curtsey more practiced and proper, but expression much less enthusiastic. “Girls, this is your great-uncle, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge. He is younger sibling to your late grandmother.”

“How do you do,” went little Charlotte.

“Oh - very well, thank you.” Nervous as he was, it was easier to smile at such a child.

“You will keep him company until dinner is served.”

“What, by ourselves?” Mathilde shot her mother a look. Less than thrilled having to be responsible for him, it’d seem.

“Your brothers will be along to join, shortly.” A crease appeared in Emilia’s brow. “Mind yourself, Mathilde.”

Chastisement delivered, the lady of the house was gone again.

He glanced around in quiet panic for something to say to the girls, because both had fallen silent. The younger didn’t seem to mind but he felt the elder was almost watching him judgmentally.

Charlotte had a mohair rabbit hugged in the crook of her arm. He was half-surprised her mother had permitted it, but only too grateful to use its presence as conversational springboard.

“What have you got there? Was that a Christmas present?” The fur was still tidy, ribbon on its neck straight - it seemed a safe guess.

“Yes, he was,” Charlotte was pleased to reply, lifting it to better show him.

“What a handsome fellow. What is his name?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He hasn’t told me yet.”

“Oh,” he tried playing along, “over a full week and he hasn’t introduced himself? He must be very withdrawn.”

“Maybe after some more tea parties,” Charlotte giggled.

Easy to see she took after her father, in personality and also looks. She had Fred’s mouth and cheeks; his tousled hair which she wore long, adorned with a single white ribbon.

Mathilde had something of her mother, around her eyes and mouth. But he could see why it was said she took after her grandmother - her shoulder-length hair was dark and thick, and she’d the Scrooge family’s bone structure.

As he studied her, he realized she was also holding something. “Ah, you have a - is that a sketchpad?”

Mathilde had been between hiding it and simply pressing it to her chest.

“Yes. It’s not a Christmas present, I had it already.”

“You must enjoy drawing then,” he gathered. “Are you any good?”

With the affronted stare she gave, he realized - she was old enough that wasn’t a question you were supposed to ask.

“I’m sure that you are,” he went quickly.

“I was in the middle of it, when Mother came,” she murmured after a pause. She considered him sideways. “Do you mind if I continue?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he told her, startled. She sat on the sofa opposite to his; began focusing on it immediately.

It was a touch crushing, he found, she desired so to ignore him. But he also wanted her to be happy, and the set of her shoulders relaxed soon as she held her pencil.

Charlotte tugged his sleeve. “What should we call you? Uncle or great-uncle?”

“Uncle is fine,” he offered - he’d not previously given any thought to it. “Bit less of a mouthful. Unless that will be confusing - have you another Uncle Ebenezer?”

It was a weak joke, but it made a six year old girl laugh anyway. “No!” She had a thought: “Are you the one that gave us Tiger?”

“Tiger? Oh - the kitten! Yes, that was me.”

Mathilde looked up, sharply. Interested despite herself.

“Oh, thank you, thank you then!” Charlotte threw arms around his neck. “We love him so very much!”

“You’re welcome,” Scrooge managed, resting hand on her back in approximation of returning the hug. “Where is he, anyway? I’ve seen no sign of him.”

“Mother doesn’t let him come upstairs when there’s company,” Mathilde informed him. “His bed is in the kitchen. And he’s not allowed upstairs where _we_ sleep either, not at all. She says that he’ll shed, and destroy things.”

“Well, he might. But, that is just what kittens do, quite often.”

Mathilde only shrugged, went back to her sketchpad.

“May I see what you’re drawing?” Having gotten her attention once, he felt disappointed losing it.

Another pause, another look. But she tilted the pad forward.

“That _is_ very good,” he observed, marveling. “Is that the Tower of London?” The shading in particular was impressive, considering she was working in pencil.

Mathilde pulled it back and returned to it, head down. Though at least she kept talking.

“It’d be better if I could draw it from life. But I have to copy it out of a book.”

“Do you like drawing buildings?”

“They’re all right.”

“What about nature?”

“I suppose.”

Charlotte pulled herself up on the sofa, sitting beside him. Not minding to be out of the conversation she played with her rabbit, ‘hopping’ him around. Sometimes he ‘hopped’ across her great-uncle’s legs - he bore it without complaint.

He fidgeted, not from the stuffed toy, but Mathilde’s terse responses. “Portraiture? Have your lessons moved on into that, at all - or, are you self-taught?”

“I have lessons. Not just in drawing, either. In all sorts of things.”

“Oh, well, of course. So you are schooled at home, then?”

“Yes. For now, anyway.” She spoke more slowly. “Mother says in a year or so I might get sent away to finishing school. For... _finishing_.”

She pressed down harder on her pencil, shading with methodical fervor.

Unsure what to make of this sudden whiff of repressed anger - and vaguely unsettled - Scrooge didn’t respond for a moment.

“You must enjoy going into the city to visit the galleries,” he attempted brightly, at last. “Have your parents ever taken you to the Royal Academy’s exhibition?”

“I don’t really care about _looking_ at pictures.” Her nose wrinkled. “I just like _making_ them.”

“Oh. I see.” After a pause he remarked, “You know, I’m far from expert on the subject; still I can’t help but think, it could do your own skills some good to study the works of others.”

“You sound like my instructors,” she responded, almost scoffing.

“Well,” he tried not to feel defensive, “some people do like to learn.”

That comment it seemed was worth pencil being set down, punctuating when her eyes lifted again.

“Do you _like_ having lessons forced on you, that you haven’t any interest in learning?”

“No, not at all.” Given recent events in his life, he couldn’t refrain from quietly adding, “However, sometimes it needs to be done.”

They were spared further staring contests or silences by new arrivals to the parlor.

“Here we are,” Fred said pleasantly. “This is the rest of them,” he pointed; “Peter and Ricky.”

Scrooge had no chance to greet them - soon as the boys saw him, their faces fell and they rounded on their father.

“You said that our great-uncle was here! But that’s not Uncle Bernie,” the older boy protested.

“I wanted to see Uncle Bernie!” the younger chimed in, nearly a sulk.

Fred half-sighed, though smile miraculously stayed mostly put. “My father’s brother,” he explained to Scrooge. “He’s a traveler, stops by about maybe every other year.”

Scrooge could only nod - given the choice, he’d probably rather meet an Uncle Bernie too.

Fred rested a hand on each son’s shoulder. “This is my _other_ uncle. Your great-uncle Ebenezer.”

Bless him, he tried imbuing the introduction with enthusiasm, perhaps hoping they’d follow along.

No such luck. Peter gazed skeptically, while Ricky seemed to be holding mistaken identity against him.

“I’ve never heard about him before,” he insisted.

“Ricky, are you accusing me of fabricating random uncles?” his father returned, patiently.

“Oh,” Peter realized, “I _do_ remember hearing about him! He’s the rich uncle, the one that never comes!”

Most parents would’ve never permitted such rudeness. Fred however shrugged with his hands, giving his uncle a significant look, eyebrows raised; as if to say they both knew that was possibly deserved.

Unfortunately he was right. Scrooge frowned at him, reproachful, but held his tongue.

“If he’s rich, does that mean he’s brought us presents?” Ricky went, with nine year old priorities.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Rather than be insulted he grasped at chance to win favor. “There’s one for each of you, over there, under the tree-”

With exclamations they raced across the room and dove on the packages, shaking boxes and shoving things.

Fred laughed. “All right, easy, you two! Don’t break anything before you even get it open.”

“Father, can I?” Charlotte asked, hopeful.

“Of course, Lottie! Go on, then.”

She slid from the sofa, joining the melee, which became mildly less concussive out of respect for the presence of a small girl.

Scrooge thought he’d seen strays around discarded dinner scraps more restrained. “That one is for Mathilde, actually-”

At this information Peter about threw the gift at his sister, not even looking. She caught it, silently scowling at him, before setting it in her lap to carefully tear back the paper.

She unwrapped enough to see what it contained. “Oh. Thank you,” she said with mild politeness.

Then she put box aside and returned to drawing.

If he’d felt crushed before, that paled to this. Scrooge half-opened his mouth, wanting badly to say something but unsure what or even if he should.

“Thank you so much, Uncle Ebenezer!” Charlotte’s gift was a picture book with fairy illustrations - he’d been unable to muster enthusiasm for any of the dolls - and she seemed happy. “It’s beautiful!”

“You’re very welcome, Charlotte.”

She hugged him again; this time he wrapped an arm around her. After Mathilde’s response, he needed the affirmation.

“Wow,” Peter whistled as he got his open, “ _lookee_.”

“Do you like it?” He craned neck to see the boy’s face, anxious.

If any of the gifts was one he’d felt most invested in, it was Peter’s. It was an elaborate model castle, complete with tiny flags and a drawbridge that was supposed to rise and lower, if properly assembled.

The consensus had been it covered most options: a kit would be good for a studious boy, a castle exciting enough for an active one. It wasn’t too childish, nor was it historical enough to be deemed boring.

Plus it was something he’d have longed for if ever he’d seen it, when he was young.

Perhaps not even only that - he’d thrilled over pictures on the box nearly ten minutes before Belle teasingly asked if they were still shopping for the children.

“It’s impressive.” Peter grinned - he looked exactly like a darker-haired version of his father. “Do the cannons fire off?”

“Oh - no, I don’t think that they do.”

“Aww.” That dampened enthusiasm. He looked at it again, shrugging; but he didn’t seem entirely displeased. “That’s all right, then. It’s still nice - thank you, Uncle.”

The responding “you’re welcome” was drowned out, for Ricky had opened his package and practically screamed.

“Look! Look! Father, _look!_ ”

“Yes, Ricky,” Fred chortled, “I see them.”

Peter joined in his brother’s excitement, with a touch of envy. They examined the skates as if they were mechanical engineers, Charlotte trying to join them.

At that point Emilia returned, standing in the doorway as she took everything in.

“Ice skates.” Her gaze flicked up from Ricky’s gift. She gave another of _those_ smiles. “How lovely.”

Scrooge felt his blood run colder.

“Ah, I nearly forgot. Where are my manners,” Fred was saying, offhand; “Uncle, would you like a drink before dinner?”

“Yes, please,” he practically gulped.

“Once you’ve done that, you can come help me oversee the table,” Emilia told her husband.

“Of course,” Fred agreed - handing the glass he’d fixed off to his uncle, and missing the older man’s expression entirely.

Scrooge could only look on with dismay as the parents went off, leaving him stranded with four children.

“No time to go outside and try these, is there?” Ricky asked, holding his new skates. His was the hardest face to piece out - his mother’s yellow-blond hair, the rest of his features a muddle; clear family resemblance but nothing specific.

Peter shook his head. “Nah. You know we can’t.”

Scrooge was already nursing his drink. “If...if the four of you wanted to play some sort of game, and leave me be, I’ll be fine,” he let them know.

“We can’t play any games, before dinner,” Ricky complained. “It’s not allowed.”

“We can play quiet games,” Mathilde corrected.

“I don’t know any _quiet games_ ,” her younger brother said, snippy as a boy that age could manage. “There aren’t any!”

“Yes there are.” Mathilde wasn’t even looking up from her picture, voice bland.

“Nah, she’s right for once. It’s only most quiet games aren’t any fun.” Peter elbowed his brother. “And you’re too young and stupid to know much, anyhow.”

Mathilde’s head did shoot up at that. “I’m telling Mother you said that!”

“Oh, go on and tell her, then!” Peter retorted, dismissive.

Scrooge tried thinking how to defuse the sibling argument seemingly about to break out in front of him, but lacking a single idea he simply drained his glass further.

To his immense relief they settled for making faces at one another. Mathilde huffily returned again to her sketchpad.

Peter tapped Ricky - who hadn’t been the least insulted - and they furtively ducked by the hearth. Shooting looks over at Scrooge.

Recognizing behavior of someone approaching a secret bolthole when he saw it, he politely shifted so he wasn’t facing them.

That put Mathilde’s abandoned present in line of sight however, and displeasure ate at him again.

“Mathilde,” she glanced at being addressed; he indicated the box, “you don’t like them?”

She didn’t even look at the hair ribbons - vibrant colors, even some patterns, neatly lined up. “They’re fine.”

His mouth worked as he debated how much to press the matter. “I wanted to get you something you’d enjoy. You can be honest with me.”

She merely shrugged.

“Perhaps next time, I’ll bring you something different.” He tried not to sound like he was pleading. It wasn’t rejection so much as the ambiguity – he’d thought children more straightforward than this. “Something to do with your drawing, perhaps? Or, is there anything else you’d like?”

The boys trundled back from the fireplace - having returned what Scrooge presumed must’ve been a loose brick. Their gains a fistful of wrapped toffees and lollies they began splitting as seriously as thieves dividing ill-gotten spoils.

“Give me one,” Mathilde demanded.

Peter frowned at her, yet handed one over anyway. Rather than stick it in her mouth straightaway as her brothers were, she slipped it into a pocket in her skirt.

“Why do that, she’ll tell Mother and get us in trouble,” Ricky objected.

“No, ‘cus now she’ll be in it too for having one,” Peter declared.

“If you’re worried, you shouldn’t be doing that with Ricky,” Mathilde retorted. “You know he can’t keep a secret for anything.”

“I can too keep a secret!”

“No, Ricky - you _can’t_ keep a secret,” Peter sighed.

“You really can’t,” Charlotte agreed from where she’d settled with her new book.

Scrooge indicated the youngest sibling, asking Peter, “You’re not going to offer her a candy also?”

“I have a loose tooth,” she explained in a chirrup.

“Ah. I see.”

In the silence that followed he glanced at the tree, which was a mistake. Irrational as it was, he felt like those decorated pine branches were giving off an implausibly judgmental air.

“Do you know any card games?” he asked the children quickly.

“We’re not allowed to learn those,” Mathilde said.

“No, of course you wouldn’t be,” he grumbled. Emilia wanted her children to sit for hours staring placidly at walls, it’d appear - he doubted this was Fred’s influence.

Something occurred to him, however, and he pointed at the boys. “You two - are you also educated at home?”

“I still am,” Ricky answered. “Peter goes to boarding school.”

Scrooge eyed the eldest. “How long have you been at boarding school?”

“Uh, two years.”

“Then you’ve learned to play cards from the older boys by now,” Scrooge said factually. “Even if it’s only the simplest games, you’ve learned.”

“Well - yeah.” He fidgeted. “Don’t really play at home, though, since the only one I’d teach is Ricky and-”

“He can’t keep a secret,” his great-uncle finished.

“He’s showed me _some_ things, though!” Ricky contributed brightly - not seeming to realize the point he proved in the process.

Charlotte had gotten up and approached him again. “We could play Cat’s Cradle.”

“Ah - I don’t know how.”

“That’s fine! All I need is your hands.”

“Well, I...all right then.”

Mathilde indicated the hair ribbons. “You can use these,” she told her sister, who skipped over straightaway.

“Here.” Charlotte returned with several ribbons. “Hold your hands like this,” she instructed Scrooge, who did as demonstrated. She began merrily weaving a pattern in-between his fingers.

Mathilde, of course, was content with sketching. The boys meanwhile were standing side by side, lollies sticking out of their mouths, arms folded - exchanging a glance before they looked at their great-uncle.

“So,” Peter demanded, “are you going to ask us the usual things?”

“The - the usual things?”

“What we’re having lessons in,” Ricky said.

“How well we think we’re doing,” Peter said.

“What our favorite subjects are.”

“How many marks we’ve got.”

“If we behave for our teachers.”

“What books we’re reading.”

“If we behave for our parents.”

“What we think we’ll go into, when we’re older.”

“You know,” Ricky finished, “ _that_.”

“Well,” Scrooge paused, taking a second to recover from the barrage, “I _could_ ask you those things, certainly. If you wanted me to. But, I feel it rather seems that you don’t.”

Another exchanged look between his interrogators; begrudgingly pleased with him for that decision.

He looked where he’d rested his drink on an end table, and realized too late his dilemma: Charlotte was on her third ribbon and his hands weren’t going to be doing anything soon.

“Would you like some help, Uncle?” Ricky offered, noticing.

“Don’t be dumb, Ricky.”

“Don’t call him _dumb_ , Peter.”

Scrooge ignored the sniping of the two oldest children. After some hesitation he went, “Yes, please, if you would.”

It wasn’t the brightest idea to let an enthusiastic nine year old attempt holding a glass for him - it was as much poured down his throat as anything, some spilling on his cravat. Still once he’d caught his breath, he managed a smile for Ricky, who seemed so happy to be useful.

“Thank you, Ricky.”

“You’re welcome, Uncle Ebenezer!”

“Dinner is ready.” Fred appeared, and of course had to laugh at what he saw. “Oh my, what’s this? I’ve left you lot alone for ten minutes and you’ve taken a captive!”

“It’s only been ten minutes?” his uncle wondered aloud.

“Peter, either finish that or put it away,” Fred told his eldest, who still had a lolly in his mouth, “before your mother sees.”

The candy was swiftly vanished - indeed, Scrooge wasn’t entirely sure where it went.

Fred winked. “There we are then. Come along.”

The tribe got up almost as one to leave. Seemingly forgetting something, or rather someone in the process.

“Ah - Charlotte!” he called to her, helplessly.

She realized her error, and hurried back to him and his outstretched hands.

“There!” It took her short time to undo her work, with a few simple tugs. “I release you, my noble prisoner!” she declared in an attempt at a queenly voice.

“Oh, well - I thank you, most honorable lady.” He sketched half a bow.

She giggled, and took his hand in her small one to lead him to the dining room.

The dinner was spread out on the table in manner to balance between tidy and impressive. It’d been so long since he accepted invitations to dine anywhere he’d nothing to compare it to, could make no guess as to it being considered fashionable or otherwise.

But there were no dishes whose contents confused him, and everything looked and tasted more than good enough. He took small portions and picked through them slowly - unused to multi-course meals, he was wary of upsetting his stomach.

“Well, I’m sure you all had time enough alone to start getting acquainted,” Fred observed to the assembly, after they’d begun tucking in.

He couldn’t keep from giving a dour look, picking up his wineglass. “Yes, thank you for abandoning me,” he muttered.

Fred must’ve heard - because he _smirked_ at him, throwing his uncle slightly off-kilter.

Clearly, it hadn’t been an oversight. And now he was laughing at him about it.

His nephew often tried to be playful during his yearly visits, but he’d never been allowed to get very far. Scrooge had no idea how he felt, realizing Fred was ready to tease him so soon into their improved relationship.

“So,” Fred went on, trying to lead the conversation, “what have you been up to, Uncle, since I last saw you on Christmas?”

“Oh...nothing really.” He’d sudden sympathy for the boys’ revulsion towards inquiries.

“Oh come, there must be something to report,” Fred encouraged.

“No, there really isn’t.” He smiled weakly; not sure if he was apologizing for his dullness or trying to defend himself. “It’s been less than two weeks since making my decision to close the firm; not time enough to cause much alteration in my routine.”

“What shall you do with yourself once you’ve fully retired, Mr. Scrooge?” Emilia’s polite interest tempered by snub of referring to him formally - he wasn’t _her_ relative, but it seemed deliberate choice. “Will you be moving to the countryside? Engaging in some travel, perhaps?”

“I very much doubt it, in either case. I never leave London, if it can be avoided.”

“You own places abroad though, don’t you?” Fred noted. “Didn’t you ever go and look at them?”

“Only at time of purchase.” He paused. “And it was often my business partner who did that - Mr. Marley. He’d the stomach and spirit for such travels. Seeing strange new things always excited him. I prefer the comfort of familiarity.”

“Our great-uncle Bernie travels,” Ricky contributed eagerly.

“Yes; I did hear that, earlier,” Scrooge replied, mildly sardonic. “Tell me, have you many great-uncles or aunts?” He couldn’t repress curiosity over potential competition.

“I don’t think so,” Ricky mused. “It’s just Uncle Bernie.”

“Mother has the one aunt, doesn’t she,” Peter put in. “Henrietta or something. She gets letters from her, from time to time. Though I think it’s been awhile since the last one.”

“That’s because her aunt Henrietta passed away, a few years ago,” Mathilde told him prissily.

“Well I didn’t _know_ that, did I?”

“Because you never pay attention to anything!”

“That’s quite enough, both of you,” their mother murmured - they fell silent.

“Anyway,” Peter recovered first, “we haven’t got much extended family - Father’s an only child, both his parents are gone. Mother’s got two sisters, but we almost never see them.”

“Auntie Caroline and Auntie Maurine,” Charlotte said, wanting to demonstrate she knew something.

“Caroline’s husband found work out in Kilkenny,” Fred explained to his uncle, deciding it was time for grown-up input. “They’ve got two little ones of their own, so they’re not making long journeys anytime soon. Maurine lives in Bedfordshire, with their parents.”

“She comes along when they visit, sometimes,” Emilia added. “Often however she remains behind - they prefer having somebody look after the house.”

“Caroline thinks Charlotte is named after her,” Fred said with amusement, apropos of nothing. “She just _assumed_ it, and we’ve never bothered to correct her.”

That seemed expectant of a laugh; Scrooge managed an uncertain smile.

“Auntie Maurine is the one that’s sick all the time, isn’t she?” Peter demanded. “That’s the real reason she doesn’t leave the house. She gets headaches and has trouble with her _nerves_.”

“Never you mind, Peter,” Emilia said.

“He is right though,” Fred remarked. “She’s always been frail. Nervous disposition, is what some people call it.”

His wife seemed to be holding in a sigh.

“So that’s it, then,” Ricky went on, determined. “There’s just Mother and Father, there’s us-”

“Grandmummy and Grandpoppy,” added Mathilde.

“Auntie Caroline, Uncle Edward, cousins Billie and Bobby, Auntie Maurine.” Peter ticked off his fingers.

“-and Uncle Bernie!” cheered Charlotte.

There was a pause after that conclusion, then Ricky went in complete sincerity, “Oh - and now there’s you, of course!”

Scrooge smiled, faintly. “Yes, now there’s me.”

There was some emotion he couldn’t name, sparking within him - perhaps more than one. He nursed his wine again to avoid feeling choked.

He was glad for the wine, when Ricky broke the next silence to ask, “Can I go skating soon? I have to try out my new ice skates!”

Emilia’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. Scrooge didn’t dare do a thing to call attention to himself.

“I’ll find somewhere to take him the next few days,” Fred told his wife. “Saturday afternoon, how does that sound?”

“Yes. I’m sure that will do.” She paused, then addressed her children, “Did you all remember to thank your great-uncle for the gifts he brought you?”

“Yes, Mother,” came the four-pronged chorus.

“I got a book,” Charlotte proclaimed. “It’s so pretty!”

“That’s nothing, I got this really corking model castle,” Peter said. “I can’t wait to take it back with me to show the others!”

“You will do no such thing, Peter,” Emilia went sharply. “Something like that has no business being at school with you. It’ll likely get lost or broken.”

Peter frowned in displeasure but didn’t argue, staring at his plate.

“I can play with it while you’re away!” Ricky suggested.

His brother looked up quickly. “No you won’t,” he said hotly. “You've got your _own_ present. That one’s mine - keep your paws off it!”

Ricky gave a truly ugly scowl. There was a thud, a protesting yelp from Peter, as he kicked him under the table.

“ _Hey._ ” Fred pointed with his fork at once, humor banished. “That’d better have been an accident.”

Scrooge openly stared at his nephew, not sure where this stern paternal figure had abruptly come from. Meanwhile the addressed boy couldn’t make eye contact, or voice reply.

“No?” Fred waited just long enough to make it purposefully uncomfortable. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” Ricky mumbled, daring to raise eyes to his father.

“What’re you apologizing to me for?” Fred was unyielding. “I’m not the one you owe it to.”

Ricky’s lip stuck out. But he turned towards his brother, took a breath and went, “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“There now. That’s better.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into all of you today,” their mother gazed across the children, “that you should be behaving so in front of company.”

“Oh, let it be, darling,” Fred said offhandedly. “Uncle Ebenezer might as well start getting used to it.” He looked across at his uncle. “It’s often like this, around here. Never a dull moment.”

“I see.”

By now he was on his second glass of wine, the servant who waited nearby having refilled it for him.

Thought occurred that he should probably say _something_ to contribute to the conversation. Unfortunately the things that came to him were mostly the same ‘usual’ he and the boys earlier dismissed.

“So,” he tried, “Peter, when _do_ you go back to school?”

“Next week.”

“I see. Do you enjoy it there?”

“Yeah, mostly.” Peter made a slight face. “I mean, it’s _school_.”

“But you’ve told me about all the great fun you and your friends get up to, when you’re not in classes!” Ricky piped up. “Pranks and scrapes, and sneaking about!” His brother looked exasperated, but he didn’t notice - he eagerly addressed Scrooge. “ _I’m_ going down next year.”

“Probably,” his father interjected. “That’s not for certain. There may not be a place for him. It’s a more exclusive program, that’s why they only take older boys.”

Scrooge nodded. Boarding schools were hardly a favorite topic - he struggled to keep his expression neutral, let alone interested.

“I’d have been fine with keeping them at home,” Fred continued. “But Emilia insisted.”

“It’s important to prepare them for their futures,” she stated. “A crucial start is with a good education, and the connections they can potentially make.”

“Well I didn’t go to boarding school,” Fred reminded her lightly. “I turned out all right, didn’t I?”

Emilia’s response was to smile back at him - the first showing of true fondness she’d given him all evening. By the warmth in her face in an instant she, and their relationship, seemed mildly transformed.

Scrooge barely noticed however. He was too struck by what his nephew had said.

“You didn’t?” he asked Fred.

“No. It was the only thing I remember my parents ever fighting about. My mother refused to let me go. It’s strange, come to think of it - normally she was so big on education.”

“You were her only child,” Emilia guessed. “She was attached.”

“Yeah.” Fred shrugged. “That’s probably it.”

Scrooge didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if it was the rich food, the wine, or something else altogether, but he felt like he was drifting away from the present moment. His gaze had gone unfocused.

He was back in the shadow theatre with the Spirit of Christmas Past - swearing that in the time that never was, the children he had there would’ve never been sent away for school.

That school, those memories – he’d never realized before it might’ve haunted anyone besides himself.

But what had Lottie felt, having the brother she’d cared so for being sent off – and in exchange, getting back _him?_

“I don’t know what school’s got to do with my future anyway,” Ricky was saying. “It’s not like we ever learn anything important!”

“It’s not like _you_ ever learn anything important,” Peter muttered.

“Peter,” rebuked his mother, who must’ve had the hearing of a bat.

“In geography, I’m learning about Spain. What’ve I ever got to know about Spain for?”

“But what if you did go to Spain, Ricky?” his father challenged, almost playful. “What would you do then?”

“I’d buy a map! I’ll probably never use Latin either, because nobody alive speaks it. And maths-”

“You will use maths when you’re grown. I guarantee you. I use them at work every day.”

“Well I’ll bet you don’t have to do anything complicated. Not like putting down,” he grasped randomly, “a hundred and twenty seven by three hundred and five, or dividing a thousand by _twelve_ , or figuring out what’s the square root of thirty nine-”

“Six point two-four-five, rounded to the third decimal,” Scrooge answered.

He’d been dragged from his reverie, unable to help it: too many numbers flying about. Barely aware where he was, he only focused on the figures on offer.

“And a thousand divided by twelve is eighty three point three-three, again with rounding. Or, in other words, there are slightly over eighty three twelves in a thousand, but less than eighty four. If you wanted twelve _percent_ of a thousand, on the other hand, that’d be a hundred and twenty. And, a hundred and twenty seven times three hundred and five is,” he caught his breath, “thirty eight thousand, seven hundred and thirty five.”

He tilted his head.

“Though for multiplication, numbers ending in fives are generally easy - all you have to do is memorize certain figures, then just keep counting,” he noted.

Six faces stared, with varying degrees of astonishment.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence for three whole seconds.

“How did you _do_ that?” Ricky fairly exploded.

“Did you really manage that all in your head?” Peter demanded.

“Was that a magic trick?” Charlotte asked eagerly.

Neither Emilia or Mathilde, it seemed, could say anything. Fred meanwhile used his napkin to disguise how much he was laughing.

“Erm,” Scrooge said weakly - now that he’d some sense again, he couldn’t determine if what’d happened was good or not.

“Do you gamble?” Ricky chirped.

“ _Right_.” Peter brightened keenly. “I’ll bet you’d make a mint, counting cards! Do you play whist?”

“What’s whist?” Charlotte asked, curious.

Scrooge recovered best he could. “Why don’t you see if your brothers can explain? They seem to know so much about it.”

Now it was Ricky and Peter’s turn to look awkward and stammer.

Fred actually applauded this table-turning, though he only got a few claps’ worth before his wife wordlessly rested hand on his arm with a long-suffering expression, indicating he should stop.

“Let it go, Charlotte,” Mathilde sighed. “It’s one of those things only adults talk about.”

“Oh.” Charlotte frowned, losing interest. “But then how come Peter and Ricky know?”

“Because they like to _pretend_ they’re adults.” Mathilde shot her brothers a venomous look. “But the truth is they’re bratty and _rotten._ ”

“ _Mathilde,_ ” her mother scolded, quietly incensed. “Shame on you! You know better than to ever speak like that.”

The harshness of this rebuke made Mathilde’s shoulders draw up, her gaze drop. Her fork at an angle where she almost stabbed her plate, she frowned in a way that made her look angry and helpless at the same time. Her great-uncle felt instantly sorry for her.

“It’s true, though,” she muttered stubbornly.

“It doesn’t matter,” her mother pressed, not giving ground. “Some things should not be said aloud, regardless. Some things have no business being discussed in public, or in front of guests at dinner.”

Fred was half-frowning; it didn’t seem he agreed with his wife entirely, but he didn’t disagree enough to come to his daughter’s defense.

Scrooge gave his niece-by-marriage a thin smile.

“You know, Emilia, I have to say - contrary to Fred’s comments, I find you have a remarkable control on your household.” There was snideness that the children, and his nephew, would likely miss. “It’s as tightly maintained as my pocket-watch.”

That half-lidded gaze and faint cool expression from her again, and they didn’t falter.

“Your pocket-watch likely has less moving pieces than a household containing four children,” she returned, tone deceptively light. “I’m firm because they must know what’s expected of them. To some degree they need to be able to manage themselves, to behave responsibly without constant supervision.”

Fred didn’t seem _entirely_ clueless - when he spoke this time, it was with the air of one playing peacemaker.

“If you think Emilia is impressive with what she accomplishes around the house, Uncle, you should see what she does outside of it.” He rested a hand on hers, lovingly. “I swear she doesn’t go more than a few days without one committee meeting or another.”

“You belong to some women’s organizations, then?” Scrooge asked offhandedly. Not uncommon for a wife with means - with servants and tutors to help with her children, she needed something to do besides needlepoint and afternoon calls, perhaps.

“Oh no, it isn’t the usual thing at all,” Fred corrected, somewhere between proud and affectionate. “This woman’s name is in the book for every active philanthropist in the city! Every time I walk in on their afternoon teas, it’s all donations, petitions and fundraising. She’s positively devoted to charity.”

Scrooge felt a foreboding nudge.

“Charity?” he repeated, faint.

“Oh yes, Mr. Scrooge,” Emilia informed him, with airiness that didn’t seem very sincere, “my energies have always been driven towards major works of charity. It’s not enough to simply, oh, hold a rummage sale, hoping that the money gets where it needs to be. I like to know I accomplish results in the long-term, in improving the lots of those stricken with poverty - those taken advantage of by a heartless society.”

“You...you must know then, perhaps, the two gentlemen who head the organization I believe is still called Thwaites and Langley? A mister Hooper, and...Thwaites.”

“I know them, yes. We have some intersecting interests. Like them, I’ve often felt to be truly successful in changing things for the poor one should interact with them directly, witnessing their plight.”

She folded hands, sat up even straighter, smile shifting.

“The _things_ that people in that situation have to tell you,” she went; “it leaves quite the impression.”

He could say nothing in reply, only gazing at her with a numb kind of horror.

Emilia’s bad opinion of him wasn’t the result of how he’d treated her husband - or if that’d anything to do with it, it was only a minor part. She’d been hearing for years from the people his actions had left in need of her charity.

No wonder she _despised_ him.

At that point Charlotte said something about her tooth, and her brothers began offering increasingly troublesome suggestions for how to help her shed it. Both parents became needed to moderate.

Scrooge used the distraction to down everything that remained in his wineglass.

He looked up after, only to discover one member of the party had noticed. Mathilde was staring at him, eyebrows steeply raised.

With _that_ expression, she really did look like his sister.

The wine carafe was offered again but he put a hand over his glass.

“No - no, I think I’ve had enough, thank you.” Three drinks had been a bad idea, perhaps. He felt mildly queasy.

He passed on dessert for that reason; a shame because it was a very good-looking plum pudding. He mollified himself with the fact the evening was almost over. If it hadn’t been a disaster, it hadn’t precisely been a delight either.

He perked up a bit when after the last plate cleared Emilia announced that the children could go downstairs to say goodnight to Tiger, and the four of them did so with absolute enthusiasm. At least he’d contributed a well-loved member to the household, if feelings towards him remained more mixed.

Emilia bid a brisk goodnight. She would be upstairs to oversee the children’s bedtime routine, when they arrived, and then it seemed she had a full day planned tomorrow.

“Are you all right, Uncle?” Fred found where he’d retreated to a chair in the hall, looking defeated.

He saw the concern in his nephew’s eyes and managed a smile for him. “You’ve overfed and overwatered me,” he joked feebly. “And, overstimulated. You forget that I’m unused to such social excitement.”

“Oh, well...I think you held your own well, for a beginner,” Fred chuckled encouragingly. “A first-time visit to our house is a bit like running a gauntlet, I’ll admit.”

“Yes.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “Four children, Fred. I mean, really. Why _four_ children?”

“Why not?” Fred countered. “I love each and every one of them.”

He could imagine it of Fred, he supposed. To have a nature so buoyant, a heart so guileless and full of love, he could oversee a large family with ease and just keep giving to them what was needed.

Could that’ve been him, once? Could he have been that sort of father? Even at his most sanguine, he doubted it.

“Will you be joining me, in the study? We can talk with some peace and quiet. There isn’t a tree there too, I promise you; just garlands and some wreaths.”

“I don’t know, I...I really do think I’m beginning to feel unwell...”

“I’ll get you some water? Maybe that’ll help.”

Fred left and he was alone in the hallway. Incredibly rude as it would be, he contemplated leaving then and there with no one around to stop him.

He heard footsteps, and turned his head.

Mathilde had appeared from the kitchens; she had to go past him to get to the staircase. He stood up, slowly.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes, I should be going soon.” Hands clasped lightly, he realized he still wasn’t able to drop the matter: “You know - I really am sorry, about your present.”

“It’s fine.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It isn’t. A proper gift should make a person happy to receive it. Even I understand that. I’ll try making it up to you, next time?”

“So you _will_ be coming back, then?”

It made him wonder what she must’ve overheard prior to his arrival. He gave a wan half-smile.

“I don’t know. Do you think your mother will invite me again?”

She considered it. “Probably. She invites a lot of people over that she doesn’t like. I suppose that’s part of being a hostess.”

He gazed at her, distantly amused, as she realized what she’d just done.

“Are you going to tell her I said that?”

“Oh, well,” he went wryly, “I was already aware she didn’t like me. Seeing as I learned nothing new, no point in recollecting the conversation. It might as well have never happened.”

“All right. Thank you, then.”

“It’s no trouble. Goodnight, Mathilde.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Ebenezer.”

With one last glance, she turned and went up the stairs.

Not long after that her siblings arrived. Charlotte reached for another hug - stiffly he returned it, taking a knee so it’d be easier for them both. Ricky came next, nearly tackling him. Peter lingered at first - recalling he was an older boy, Scrooge stood and offered his hand instead. That got a pleased grin, a hearty handshake.

They exchanged goodbyes in a flurry. The staircase echoed as three children went up, their great-uncle watching after.

As if he’d been waiting in the wings, Fred returned soon as they were gone.

“Bid the little ruffians farewell?” he guessed, probably still hearing the echoes.

“Yes. How you’re ever going to get them to settle, after tonight, I couldn’t begin to say.”

“Oh, it won’t be that hard.” Fred handed him the glass of water. “They’re more worn out than you think. I can tell.”

“I suppose you’d know.” He paused. “I must ask - about Mathilde; is she always so-”

Fred’s chortle meant he didn’t have to elaborate, thankfully. “Oh well, she’s just at that age, with girls. You know how it is.”

“No,” he replied with blunt confusion, “I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Honestly, I don’t really know either. But that’s what my wife says, and that it’s to be expected. I’ll take her word on it - she’d certainly know better than I.”

Scrooge made sound of half-agreement, drinking the water.

“So,” Fred went on, after giving him a moment, “I can get a carriage for you, if you must be going. But if not, I can offer you a comfortable seat, next to a very warm fire, and-”

“I hope you’re not about to offer me brandy,” he said, discomfited. “Believe me, I’ve had enough drink.”

“That’s all right, then.” Fred was undeterred. “I shouldn’t be drinking this late myself anyway. Tends to give me the strangest dreams.”

“I don’t even know what you could want to talk to me about. Unless it’s financial advice?”

“Oh, God no. I hate talking about finances even at work.”

“Then...I don’t know what we could possibly discuss.”

Incredulous laughter. “It doesn’t have to be anything important! It’s just about keeping company.”

Scrooge looked distractedly into the glass.

“No, really, I...I don’t understand. What you could possibly want from me.” He gazed at his nephew, whose face had fallen into startled discomposure. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, Fred, really I do. It’s...I just don’t know, what you think I have to offer.”

He’d nothing to give - no warmth, no tales of hard-won life’s wisdom. Fred could find a hundred older gentlemen in London to plop into a chair by his fire and occasionally distract his children. That he’d won out purely by the luck of relation didn’t seem good reason enough.

“I...I can’t believe you’re dismissing yourself like this,” Fred went in bemusement. “Don’t tell me you think...you think that you have no worth to me at all?”

 _Worth?_ he repeated silently, disbelieving. _What am I possibly worth to you?_

He’d missed a wedding, he’d missed four christenings. He’d missed thirteen Christmases and so many birthdays.

He’d been ice cold, hostile, given insults and deliberately hurtful rejections. Even now that he was willing to try - he wasn’t loving; he was awkward and aloof. Yet Fred was chasing after him like he was a prize. It made no sense.

“I have to say,” he went gradually, pained, “I do hope this isn’t out of some...lingering sense of obligation, to your mother. Whatever you feel you owe to her memory, you have more than-”

“No,” Fred cut him off, startlingly firm. “No, that isn’t it.”

He searched his nephew’s face for any hesitation but finding none, felt more at a loss than ever.

“Then I don’t understand. Why, Fred? And don’t say it’s because I’m family - that isn’t reason enough. I know it isn’t.”

Fred mulled over his response.

“It just always seemed a shame to me, that for much of my life you were so close by, yet we never interacted. And I suppose,” he looked down, “after my mother died, and my father followed her not long after...I remember how lonely I felt.”

He gave a poignant shrug.

“Suppose I just always thought, you might be lonely too.”

Scrooge blinked, as those words settled in. Once they had, he gave an odd smile.

“You know, that’s interesting. That somehow you knew that about me, when for years I didn’t know it about myself.”

“Oh, well,” Fred joked, “guess I got some of my mother’s brains, after all.”

That got a fond laugh out of Scrooge. If Fred wasn’t the imbecile he’d sometimes derided him as, he was certainly flighty - but not so bad as it looked, clearly, if he was self-aware.

“There’s a thought. We could talk about my mother,” Fred suggested.

His breath caught. He couldn’t remember when last he’d talked about Lottie. Since her death, he’d hardly acknowledged he’d had a sister at all.

He would never forgive himself for letting the last half of her life slip past him.

“The only things I could tell you would be stories from when we were children,” he said regretfully. “And I’m sure you’ve already heard those.”

“Actually, no. She never talked much about her childhood. There were things, I guess, she didn’t like to remember.” Fred slid hands into his pockets, seemingly debating how much to say. “I gathered that...that my grandfather, your father, wasn’t a very good man.”

“He wasn’t,” was the only response Scrooge could give.

He pressed his mouth together as he inhaled.

“But the parts where it was her and I, together - those were happy memories,” he determined, as much for his own benefit as Fred’s.

“All right.” Fred smiled. “Then you can tell me about what she was like when you were children. And I can tell you what I remember; what she was like as my mother, all that.”

“Yes.” Scrooge wavered only a bit more. “All right.”

They sat a long time in the study, warm and comfortable by the fire, sharing their stories about Lottie. They both had much to say.

Recollection didn’t hurt when there was so much affection - it made the bad times seem bittersweet at worst, and the happy times shine bright.

He took a carriage home. He didn’t check the hour when he climbed into bed. He didn’t count to himself, either - he fell asleep soon as he closed his eyes.

He decided to work from home again, on Friday. Then on Saturday as well.

Though he’d been waking on time he felt almost mildly lethargic. The weather, perhaps - it kept snowing at night, streets blanketed by morning, the windows frozen with patterns like claw-shaped fingers. It was too easy to look outside and decide one would rather stay in.

 _At least,_ he thought, _Ricky will have excellent conditions to use his ice skates._

He’d started bringing what papers he could home; plenty to keep him occupied. He examined the draft of his new will, and began returning some of the letters he could no longer ignore.

He wrote down the date, at one point - then stopped for a moment, pen still poised over paper.

“Two weeks,” he said aloud. “Two weeks it’s been, since Christmas Eve.”

He set down his pen. Sank back in his chair, staring into nothing as he thought.

Getting to his feet he paced the room slowly until he’d made a loop. He ended by the window, shoulder leaning against wall as he peered out.

Two weeks, since Marley had been sent to him - since he’d been visited by the three spirits.

And how much had changed, really? The whole world looked different to him, most of the time - but then there were moments like these, where he looked at the street and the people going past and the city, and he had to admit nothing seemed very different at all.

Jenny came in with a pail of coal, to fill up the basket by the fire. She was unerringly quiet, but this was a task even she couldn’t do in complete silence.

“Sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

“No, no - you didn’t. I was merely lost in thought.”

“Do you need me to empty the dustbin, sir?”

He glanced at the many crumpled and torn papers stuffed inside; various failed attempts at communication. How he missed having a clerk.

“No. Leave it. I will probably burn those for kindling, at some point.”

“Aye, sir.” A pause. “Then...I think that means I’m finished for the day, sir.”

He glanced at the clock, then at where she stood - head slightly bowed, hands clasped. Worrying the back of one hand with her thumb.

“Ah, then you want your week’s wages,” he realized. “Yes - one moment, if you please.”

Returning to the desk he sorted through petty cash he’d started keeping. It’d made him so anxious, this particular change - knowing it was there, even in a locked drawer. But it couldn’t be helped, with errands to oversee now, intent to treat those he dealt with fairly - London really was a city run on commerce.

“Will you be doing anything with your day off, Miss Jenny? Besides attending church, I assume.”

“I’ll be spending the day with my family, sir.”

“Oh, good.”

He straightened up - and paused, because it seemed she was trying to get courage to speak.

“Is...is something wrong?”

“N-no, it’s...the three pennies, sir.”

He frowned, perplexed. “Beg pardon?”

“I realize I never gave you answer, about...what you were trying to talk to me about, that first day,” she went, breathlessly. “But I thought about it, a-and I _would_ like to try doing how you described. If - if that’s still all right with you, sir.”

“Oh - _oh!_ ” Comprehension dawned. “Yes...yes, of course we can do that! Ah, another moment then.”

He made different change, so there’d be pennies to set aside. He checked the kitchen and found a clean jar that would serve.

He handed the rest of her pay over. Jenny took it from him, delicately.

The three pennies he dropped into the jar, where they made a slight clink.

“There we are, then.” He tried not to act too enthusiastic, considering what’d happened before. “So it begins.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Before she left, she smiled at him. A nervous expression, like all her others, and faint - but still, a smile.

Everything was a lesson if one knew how to look.

He glanced at the pennies – with hard work, the best of intentions, small things could inevitably make a difference.

By himself in his house, on that cold January day, Ebenezer Scrooge had to smile.


	6. Turned Upside-Down

Chapter Six: Turned Upside-Down

_The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading an ass laden with wood by the bridle._

_"Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "It's dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes, I know! One Christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he did come, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy! And Valentine," said Scrooge, "and his wild brother, Orson; there they go! And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him! And the Sultan's Groom turned upside-down by the Genii; there he is upon his head! Serve him right. I'm glad of it. What business had_ he _to be married to the Princess!"_

_To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed. - Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits_

That next Monday passed much the same. The Tuesday after it began likewise.

A great irony of some fashion, perhaps, that for being officially shut down labor went on in the offices of Scrooge and Marley prodigiously as ever.

But to simply lock the doors, cancel accounts, walk away from everything, leaving it all a mess for somebody else to sort - that would’ve been too easy, for Ebenezer Scrooge. Too easy to be lived with.

He did not _try_ to make himself suffer, he would insist; he certainly hadn’t the character to be a martyr. But what he owed to the world, where his business was concerned, was better than what would be gained by a clean break.

So there he was again, alone with his books and inkwell. Another day the same.

While the boulder never rolled back down the mountain, at times it was still difficult to feel he made any headway. If the continued stream of frantic occasionally threatening correspondence was anything to go by though, surely he was doing something right.

He’d learned to brace himself before the post arrived, several times daily. Today at least, some small brightness - a note from Old Miss Thwaites.

Thwaites’ spinster aunt had indeed sent a card, offering brief sincere thank-you for the kitten. He’d waited a few days then responded with acknowledgement in the expected formal way. However he’d signed off with inquiry as to how her new charge was doing.

She happily replied informing him of the particulars. Then she asked after the well-being of Dido’s brother.

They’d been exchanging short anecdotes about their respective creatures, every few days, ever since.

When he recognized her address he tucked it carefully in his leather portfolio, to read when he got home. It’d arrived sandwiched between bills of account for operations he was closing, which came to staggering sums, and another irate telegram. At this rate he was going to need the small enjoyment promised by that letter.

The rag and bone man came, though he’d nothing for him - at least he tried being polite about telling him to his face.

As he went to the door, he was aware of the cluster of children nearby. Word had spread among the neighborhood urchins he was now often good for a well-paid errand or three any given workday.

He tried not to liken their presence to carrion birds, lurking about, waiting to pluck at the bones of some wounded animal soon as it fell and presented opportunity.

He was still at the door after the trader left, when there was sudden commotion.

“Get lost, you lot! This one’s _my_ big fish!” proclaimed a shrill voice.

A swaddled figure began pelting the others with fistfuls of icy snow as he hurried past, heedless of both being outnumbered and how some were a great deal bigger. The other children muttered complaints but left without resistance - intimidated perhaps by the bravado.

The boy jogged closer. Nevermind his face was again covered; obvious by tone he was grinning.

“That’ll show them!”

“Hello again, Marty.” Scrooge gave one jaded blink. “Should I ask how you managed to find me?”

An indifferent shrug, conveyed somehow through all those layers.

“That’s what I do, isn’t it?” the child stated. “I find things.”

“Yes, among your other talents.” He half-smiled wryly. “Is this really your long-term strategy? You’ll claim me as your sovereign territory in the business of delivery and retrieval?”

“It’s been a slow week, so far,” Marty informed him. “Walked up and down the city yesterday, could hardly find nothing to get paid for.”

“ _Couldn’t_ hardly find _anything_ ,” Scrooge corrected, offhand.

“Right, sir, exactly!”

“So, one slow day of productivity and you hope to make up for it by chasing a big payout? Are you going to stake out my door all afternoon?”

“Until you’ve got some use of me, I reckon. Then I’ll probably go somewhere else. Pays to keep on the move.”

Scrooge folded his arms against the cold he was standing in, to continue this conversation. “In more way than one, I’m sure. But what if I _don’t_ have anything for you to do, today? What then?”

“You’ll have something,” Marty insisted. “I’ve got a feeling for it.”

He was tempted to make the boy regret his confidence, and wasn’t certain the impulse could be attributed entirely to old spiteful habits, either.

But as if he could read Scrooge’s mind, Marty folded his own arms, made to get comfortable as he could on the office doorstep. Staring him down with steel in youthful blue eyes.

“All right, look,” Scrooge relented - not sure if it was admiration or annoyance or even apprehension that got him, “I am running several things to the post office, later. You can make my trip easier by carrying them for me. But that’ll only earn you six-pence.”

“It’s better offer than I’ve had since Saturday,” came the reply.

“Saturday? You take off on Sundays?”

“Nah.” An eye-roll, behind the scarf. “But Sunday’s lousy day for payout, everyone’s _cheap_ and calls it god-fearing thriftiness. Or worse, they try to profess to you. Make you go to sermons, give you pamphlets.”

“The word you are looking for I think, Marty, is _proselytize_.”

“What’s it matter?” he retorted. “You knew what I was saying.”

“Indeed I did. You have me there,” he admitted, frowning. “It will be a few hours before I go out. You should come back then.”

“And risk another getting to my coins first? Don’t think so!” He actually sat, legs folded under him. “I’ll wait right here.”

“I’m not inviting you inside,” Scrooge warned. “This office is a place of business, and thus no place for children.”

He refused to let any amount of charity compel him to have them running about underfoot, no matter the reason - no doubt getting into everything, disturbing his papers. No - there _were_ limits; there were.

“That’s all right.” Marty was undeterred. “I’m used to the cold.”

Scrooge shook his head in exasperation, pulling door shut tight behind him.

If Marty really was so determined, he should’ve let him freeze.

Instead he worked quickly through his next ledgers, took the first decent stopping point he encountered. Only fifteen minutes passed, altogether.

When Scrooge came to the door in his hat and coat, Marty stood, brushed himself off, and held out arms in almost demanding fashion.

The boy was transformed into two small booted legs beneath stacked envelopes and packages, though he didn’t falter a single step. He was, at least, as good a worker as he was a dogged one.

Scrooge still wanted to tell him he shouldn’t get used to this ready availability of labor - but he’d an uneasy feeling to do so would only jinx himself.

They made it to post the items, he paid Marty, then they went their separate ways.

As he walked back to the office again, he discovered unexpectedly he’d another person waiting on him. Across the street, leaning against the wall, in a green almost clashing with her new bonnet, was Belle.

She gave a small wave at his approach, hand no higher than chest-level.

It seemed she anticipated his coming over to her. But Scrooge had no interest in another conversation out on the pavement. He went to his office door and unlocked it; made it clear by a tilt of his head that he was inviting her inside.

He’d already hung up his things by the time she wandered in.

“Good afternoon, Miss Belle.”

“Good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Ebenezer.” Though her smile was bright, her manner seemed almost uncharacteristically timid; “I wasn’t certain you’d want me in here,” she explained.

“No? Why not?”

She gave him a frown, like he was being purposefully foolish. “What if someone sees me?”

“I expect no visitors and indeed, for the past two weeks I’ve received none. Besides, for a London business quarter this is a comparatively quiet street.” He rested hand on the back of his chair, refraining from sitting down for the moment. “And as I think I’ve made clear before, people are more than free to find out I’ve an association with you.”

He looked around idly, trying to joke: “If anything, you only _improve_ the moral character of this establishment.”

“I see.” She lifted her head, looking around herself - taking it in. “So, this is where it all happens, then.”

“Happened,” he corrected her tense. “Scrooge and Marley, the business, is defunct officially. At least on paper.”

She looked surprised.

“Did I not tell you?” he realized aloud. “Oh. Well, yes: I’ve signed documentation ending the firm’s practice, and I’m in the process of winding up all the accounts. It...may take longer than I’d like, but already we’ve stopped trading.”

“So what’s there left to be done?” she asked curiously.

He did sit down, then. He’d feel better if he’d the written numbers in front of him.

“Getting out of contracts. Making sure the workshops and other places are either sold or find appropriate new management. Moving around a lot of money - though much of that is getting eaten up by expenses incurred by everything previously listed.” He shrugged with thin smile, to show he didn’t mind.

“I doubt it’s going to break you to nothing,” she guessed archly.

“No,” he assured her, almost amused. “When’s all said and done, it’ll have made quite a dent - but I’ll still have plenty to live on.”

“Comfortably? Or in the manner to which you are accustomed?”

He laughed to himself. “ _More_ comfortably than the manner to which I am accustomed. Should I care to make any improvements. Which I don’t.”

“I see.” She’d folded her arms loosely, looking around again. “What do you think you’ll do then?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” He’d been dodging the question for weeks - with her, defeated honesty seemed easier. “I never planned to retire. I half-assumed they’d find me collapsed in my chair here someday. I was never one for...leisure.”

“I did notice,” she said to that, shrewd. “Going by what you’ve already told me though, I imagine you don’t intend to keep all of it. Some of that money’s going to charity.”

“Oh, indeed.” He looked aside, thinking. “I might set up a trust, something that will do greater benefit to the long-term. Some of the payout I might even reinvest, with profits going to various organizations. Various _reputable_ organizations - even for a good cause, I don’t like the idea of signing my name to a cheque without first doing my research. In any case, that will all take...more time.”

“And save you the decision of what to do with yourself,” she noted.

Though she was amused, the remark seemed almost accusatory. He smiled at her, on the defensive.

“I enjoy working. I always have. That, at least, I see no reason to change.”

“Do you enjoy it, or do you just enjoy that it keeps you from the troubles of living?”

He’d picked up pen and leaned over his ledger, but that question struck hard enough to still him. He needed a moment to compose himself before he lifted his head to stare at her.

‘ _The troubles of living’_ \- a simple phrase with which yet she’d somehow said much. The trickiness of having to deal with people, and actually go out in the world and _live._

At his stunned, almost betrayed expression, she gave an apologetic laugh.

“ _I’m_ sorry, I...didn’t come here to poke at you.” She shook her head. “What makes you happy and what you choose to do with yourself is really none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The rebuke was quieter than it would’ve been, once. He dropped his pen, frowning at the bitter taste in his mouth.

“I do apologize,” she went on, abashed though she was still smiling. “I only came because…”

“Because?” He looked at her, sharp. Whatever her reason for being here was, what’d felt like a visit now seemed more like intrusion.

Belle nearly winced. It seemed what brought her didn’t feel important enough now, for this bother. Her smile had become sheepish.

“I’ve been terribly curious, how things went with your visit to your nephew’s family.” She lowered her gaze. “Though admittedly that’s...not really any of my business either.”

He was reminded of circumstance the last time they’d spoken – the help and advice she’d given him.

The tension left his body.

“No,” he told her, sighing reassurance; “no, you’ve every right to be interested, after how – well, you did me a great service. In any case, it’s kind of you to inquire.”

It _was_ kind – people rarely asked how things went for him, how he was doing. Ever.

“It went well.”

“Oh, did it?” She brightened.

“I think so, yes.” A wry smile, taking up pen again. “I wasn’t thrown out of the house, in any case.”

A pause from her. “Did you really think there was a chance that might happen?”

He stilled, again, on the verge of adding a number. Cleared throat slightly, as he measured how to respond.

“My nephew has been trying to foster connection with me for many years now. I’ve resisted every effort. This year, I was given reason to believe that – that my window of opportunity with him had closed.”

“But it turns out that it hasn’t?”

“No. Not with him, at least. His wife it seems is inclined to hate me, but…I will say she might have good reason. I don’t care about her,” he said dismissively, “it was Fred and to some degree his children I was worried about.”

“And the children?” Belle had come closer, beside his desk. “Now that you’ve met them, what do you think?”

His smile was almost involuntary. “They’re good children,” he concluded. “High-spirited, and at the time I was overwhelmed, considering their number. But now that I’ve had a few days to recover, I’ll say that they are a charming enough brood.”

“I imagine that high praise coming from you.”

She was teasing him again. He ignored it.

“Indeed.”

He’d begun writing as they were talking, and for a moment she let him work in silence.

“Are you always the only one here?”

He couldn’t see her face but imagined her looking about at the piled papers and small fire in the grate and the clock on the wall.

“Despite our…reaches, Scrooge and Marley always remained at its core a small establishment.” He glanced up at her. “I like doing things for myself. And, it kept costs down. We used to employ a clerk, for making copies and other things.” He pointed. “You might’ve noticed his station, when you walked in past it.”

“Oh, yes – that little stand.” She turned her head, then looked at him again. “You sacked him, did you?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he quickly corrected. “He moved on of his own accord, found a better position – just prior to our shutting down.” She seemed vaguely skeptical. “It was opportune timing. I told him as much, myself,” Scrooge insisted.

“I see.”

She brushed it off, all enthusiasm again. She sat on the edge of his desk. He stopped writing, but she didn’t notice at first.

“If you don’t mind, though – if I’m not interrupting – I really am curious, actually.” Her expression was almost impish; self-aware yet unrepentant. “The gifts. How’d they go over?”

“I don’t mind talking to you, Miss Belle, but,” he gazed at her placement, disconcerted, “could you please not sit - just there?”

The informality of it, the intrusion, was too much. He did like everything in its place – a person perched on his working space was anything but.

She glanced down at herself. “Oh! Sorry.”

Getting up she went toward the nearest chair – behind the desk opposite to him. Scrooge winced.

“No,” he said, more abruptly. “Not…not there, either.”

Belle froze, puzzled. She looked at him, then down at the desk.

Her expression changed as she realized there were items sitting on it, as if its occupant would return any minute.

“This was his seat, wasn’t it?” she asked carefully. “Mr. Marley’s.”

“Yes.” He avoided her eyes, though he wasn’t certain why. “It was.”

“Right.”

She bit her lip, briefly, then nodded. Went into the other room to retrieve a chair.

He shifted, managed to recover himself by the time she returned. Though it didn’t help when she dragged chair legs on the floor.

“So,” she set down beside him, where she’d been standing, “you were telling me how it went with the presents. The children were happy?”

“They were - for the most part. They were very happy. You did well,” he told her.

“Ricky liked his ice skates, then?” She grinned.

“Oh, he loved them. His mother, on the other hand...it seems she’d banned his having that very thing shortly before my gifting them.”

“Ooh - well, fie on her then. Nevermind! He was pleased, that’s what matters. And the rest?”

Normally he didn’t like having his attention split. But he was doing simple tallying and totals, it was easy to talk at the same time - anyway, he found he was enjoying this recollection with her.

“Peter was pleased with his castle. Charlotte was pleased with her book. Mathilde did not like the hair ribbons, I’m afraid - she wouldn’t even take them out of the box.”

“Oh no.” Belle had been leaning forward, chin in hand, but sat back at that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you wrong; I thought that seemed a safer choice.”

“No need to apologize, you tried your best. I don’t know it really would’ve made much difference. The impression I got from Mathilde is…” He paused, struggling. “I don’t know how to say it. ‘Sullen’ feels too dismissive.” He shook his head. “Whatever the name for her mood is, it seems _very_ determined.”

“Well - I guess she just must be at that age.”

Scrooge sat upright in his chair, tossing down pen onto ledger as punctuation to his bewilderment.

“Now, what does that mean?” he demanded. “Her father said the same thing to me, and then he couldn’t explain it!”

Belle chuckled. “I suppose it’s different, for you lads - all you ever want to be is little men. But for girls, it’s not so simple.” She bit at her lip again, musing. “You said she’s eleven, yeah? That’s old enough she’s probably had it explained to her, to some degree, how sooner than later she’ll be a woman. And, what that means. I mean, what’s expected of her.”

Belle shrugged, half-frowning.

“Not every girl likes thinking about that. How she’ll have to stop being a child, and to some extent free, and start worrying about notions of - restraint, and propriety. How she has to start grooming herself to get married and then have babies, and then there won’t be time for anything else.”

“But not every woman is so constrained,” Scrooge objected. “Not every woman lives that way! _You_ don’t.”

She gave a pointed look - like she should be offended, but was giving him pardon. “Oh, and I’m one of the lucky ones, am I?”

Realizing his error, he backtracked. “I didn’t mean - yes, obviously there are _rules_ to our society, some less sensible than others, but - there are those who go against the grain, should they so desire it.”

“Can you name me one who’s ever had that easy?” she prodded, gentle.

“Well…” He paused. He’d been going to say his sister, but that wasn’t true either. Lottie only made it _look_ easy. Particularly to an idolizing younger brother. “No. I suppose you’re right.”

Belle made sound of agreement. “Your nephew - is he wealthy as you are?”

“No. Solidly middle-class.”

“Then she’s under pressure to do well when she looks for a husband. I know, she’s not nearly there yet,” she went, before he could say anything, “but I’ll bet it’s on her mind already. _That’s_ what growing up means, to her.”

So many things about Mathilde’s behavior seemed far more significant.

He concluded aloud, “So the last thing she’d want are objects reminiscent of her status as a soon-to-be lady...like feminine finery, such as hair ribbons.”

“Probably,” Belle concurred. “Did you learn anything about what she _does_ like?”

“She likes drawing.” He toyed with the corner of a page. “She’s very good, clearly devoted to it.”

“Oh, then you could get her a book full of paintings or other pictures, maybe!”

“She likes creating pictures of her own, not _looking_ at them, as she saw fit to inform me,” he stated. “I’ve no idea what to do for her.”

“Perhaps if you go back to the toy shop, there’ll be someone who can give you an idea about art supplies?”

He frowned, not responding. He realized, belatedly - when he spoke of _doing_ something for Mathilde, he didn’t only mean about the gift. He wanted to help, somehow. If only she didn’t have to feel as she did currently.

“When are you going to see them again?” Belle took his silence in stride.

“Next week; Fred said something about that Tuesday evening. There’ll be a card waiting by the time I get home, I imagine.”

“See? Progress,” she observed. “At this rate you’ll be over all the time.”

“Perhaps.”

He wasn’t sure if the thought pleased him. Maybe it was so difficult to picture, getting hopeful about it didn’t even begin to factor in.

He scratched away at the page, but was distracted when Belle stood.

“Well this has been nice, checking in! I should leave you to your work though. You’re obviously very busy.”

“Yes.” He glanced at books and papers, suddenly feeling less enthused.

He’d hardly talked to Cratchit, when he was there - even he and Jacob hadn’t exactly been nattering away between them. But he’d prescience the office might feel lonelier and perhaps too still anyway, soon as she walked out.

“Thank you,” Belle said with a smile, “for indulging me and my prying.”

“Oh, not at all.” He smiled back. “It was the least I could do, after you went to the trouble to find me.” First Marty, now her - he wondered who else would turn up.

He couldn’t think of another person that might want to see him, so probably no one.

“It’s not that hard, for someone who knows how to ask around. Your name _is_ on the wall outside.”

“So it is,” he acknowledged.

Belle was taking her shawl off, wrapping it more securely around her shoulders. She mused aloud as she did.

“You know, I always did wonder with business types, how that gets decided. The ordering of the names. Scrooge and Marley - why not alphabetical? Was it because you wanted to be first?”

He gave a sound of amused reminiscence.

“That was his idea, actually.” He gestured to the desk across. “He said it sounded better that way - that it rolled off the tongue.”

“Scrooge and Marley - Marley and Scrooge,” she tried aloud. “I guess that’s right.” She laughed at herself. “Well, what do I know anyway! I should be off.”

He tried returning to his ledger. “Yes. I’m sure you have work to get to.” Hearing himself he stopped, aghast. “I didn’t mean - what I was trying to say was-”

He was only trying to acknowledge the value of her time; instead he’d probably given an insult.

“It’s all right,” Belle calmed him, unoffended - thank goodness. “I know what you meant.”

She’d turned toward the small corridor, but paused.

“Thing is, actually - I haven’t been doing that work of late.” She pretended to sound light about it. “For about the past week I’ve been trying other things. Taking in some sewing, carrying letters for people around the neighborhood.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough to live on, in the long run. But, figured I’d give it a try.”

“Oh,” he went, carefully.

He wasn’t sure how to respond. Good news to be sure, but congratulating her didn’t feel appropriate. Saying he hoped the change could indeed be permanent also didn’t seem right.

Any acknowledging improvement cast a shadow over her previous existence - one they both were aware she’d hardly left behind, yet.

“Well I wish you luck in your - endeavor,” he at last attempted woodenly.

“Thank you.” She ducked her head with uncertain smile.

A week ago was close to when he’d first met her. He wondered - then dismissed the thought. To take any credit for inspiring her decision seemed belittling. Even if the money had helped, surely she’d her own reasons enough.

“If you don’t have to be anywhere though, I don’t mind your staying,” Scrooge found himself going. “You’re not as - obtrusive, as you appear to think.”

Belle turned, with knowing amusement. “You want me to keep you company.”

“...Maybe.” He couldn’t see way around admitting it. “Although, _I_ might not be such pleasant company - I doubt I’ll be able to keep up a conversation the entire time.”

So far was fine but if she kept talking when he wanted to concentrate, he _would_ get annoyed with her. He’d rather spare her that.

“Oh, that’s fine. I can just sit, keep to my own thoughts. Read the paper if you’ve got it. It’s warmer in here, anyhow, than it is back at my room.”

“Is it?” he asked, appalled. He knew he still kept the fire awfully low for most.

“Place I rent in is more draft than house,” she noted with wry cheeriness. “Usually if I’m awake this hour I’d hole up in a pub somewhere, seeing how long I can get away with nursing the same two-penny of wine.”

“Oh, well,” he got up, checking his pockets, “there is a newstand, a block due east - that should be more than enough to get you something to read.” He handed her money. “Oh, and an orange.”

“You want me to bring you back an orange?”

“No, the orange is for you. Unless you don’t like oranges, then by all means get something else - it’s no trouble; if you’re to indulge me, I should attempt at being a good host. There’s no refreshment I keep here, so we’ll have to make do.”

“Well then what about you?” she pressed. “What’re you having?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” he said dismissively.

She gave an incredulous sound, putting hands on her hips.

“Mr. Ebenezer, you stand about two heads taller than me, and you’re a lot broader in the shoulders. Yet I would nearly wager we weigh close to the same. Certainly closer than we _should_. And I’ve had such a rough season my stays rattle against my ribcage when I move - what’s your excuse?”

He turned aside from her glance, uncertain how to take this resolute concern. Feeling mildly ashamed by having attention called to his self-negligence.

“I tend to skip meals at times - I forget,” he muttered. “It’s nothing. I rarely have much appetite.”

Frowning, she held up the money. “There enough here for two oranges?”

“Yes. Plenty.”

“Right then.” She strode off. “I’ll be back.”

He opened his mouth to protest but she was already gone. With irritated sigh he glanced about, reevaluating the fire.

By the time Belle returned he’d added two more lumps of coal and stirred up the embers.

“Here we are,” she announced, “two papers, and two magazines. That should more than keep me. Or you, for that matter, should you decide you’d like to take a break with some current events. Oh, _and_ two oranges. I nearly looked to see if there wasn’t a soup cart or maybe a place to get you a toffee pie, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“You’re trying to fatten me up like my housecat,” Scrooge objected, disbelieving.

She only scoffed. “Think we both know it’d hardly hurt, and take some doing besides.”

He gave her a withering look, unamused. Waved off when she offered him the change. “No, keep it.”

“Oh? All right.”

She got in her chair again, as he went to his desk.

“So, where have you gotten up to?” she inquired.

“I’m not going through the years in order. There are too many things entangled. Have to keep moving back and forth. This year is…1837,” he hesitated as he realized; “The year we bought the mill you once worked at.”

He ran hand along the ledger, seeing it differently now he knew details of that acquisition were somewhere within its pages.

Belle watched him, expression closed-off.

The numbers of that purchase, profit and eventual sale were in his head, of course - but he didn’t remember visiting. He didn’t remember the conversation he and Marley must’ve had with the owners. He didn’t remember anything about the mill itself.

After some early point, they all blurred together.

He couldn’t picture anyone associated with this mill - so instead he pictured the one he’d been brought to by the Spirit. The workers, many of them women and children, laboring hard into the night hours at Christmas - all for a job they’d be losing on the next day.

_‘It was business. I cannot be blamed for doing business!’_

He inhaled quietly. “It could be said that...I counted everything, except the human cost,” he stated, keeping knowing irony from his tone. “I thought because there were others like me, would always be others like me, who’d do the same if they could, my every action was justified.”

He tapped a finger against his book, absently.

“But that just isn’t so. What we do ourselves matters, even if we never meet the people whose lives it impacts. Or, if we do.”

He dared glance at her.

“I know it makes little difference. But truth be told I take comfort, small as it is, in knowing you’d left Carter, Chatham and Frankfort before I purchased it. I’d hate to think I was in any way...responsible, for what befell your mother. I know there are no doubt _many_ others who I am just as responsible for instead, but-”

“What are you talking about? What about my mother?”

She looked confused. Which made him confused as well.

“You told me you had to leave the mill, enter your next profession, because your mother was gone,” he reminded her. “I assumed you likely lost her to some sort of illness, or even accident, that had to do with conditions at the mill itself. Possibly overworking.” He restrained a sigh. “Such things, I can attest, are far too common.”

Belle’s eyes went wide. She clasped both hands over her mouth.

“Oh! Oh no,” she exclaimed, looking - improbably - like she almost wanted to laugh. “I can see why you thought what you did, but there’s been a misunderstanding. My mother isn’t dead, not that I know. When I said she was ‘gone’, I meant she had _left_ me.”

He stared at her, bewildered. “What?”

Belle waved a hand and shook her head. “I…well. I think I should back up, start this story from the beginning.” She breathed out. “It begins, actually, with my grandfather.”

She stood and made a kind of half-circle, as she spoke. Gesturing lightly with her hands.

“He was, you see, a regular Nabob. Took on work as a young man in farthest India, in hopes of fortune. Of course he met an exotic beauty and fell headlong for her.” A smirk. “There’s vague claim she might’ve been a princess, or a daughter of noble. That her lover had to sneak in just to catch glimpse of her face. Or, so the story goes.”

“As is common in these tales of the Orient and the lure of the harem, yes,” Scrooge remarked.

It was unoriginal, as such stories went. That it was commonplace and predictable only added to the apprehension of real-life tragedy.

Belle nodded. “Well, regardless of the details, together they had a child. Maybe he married her first, maybe he didn’t - maybe they’d a wedding in the local tradition and he figured it didn’t count. In any case he tired of her, eventually, deciding to sail for home and proper English civilization. But he decided not to abandon the child. She came back with him.”

“Your mother,” he said.

“Yes. She was brought up by her grandparents, somewhere in the countryside. Don’t ask me where, no one ever did say. _He_ exits the story, at this point - either died or got married, I figure. Like how a novelist would remove any unnecessary character.”

That she could joke in the midst of this - more than that: she did it well enough he almost laughed.

“I don’t know if there was a title, but the family was well-off. Enough it was unfortunate for my mother: pretty and well-bred, but too brown. She had to take the first decent-seeming fellow, far below her station.”

“Your father.” Scrooge had sat behind his desk again, legs crossed. “Was he? As decent as he seemed?”

“He didn’t drink and he didn’t hit, but he couldn’t make money if his life depended on it. Which, it did, and ours with it. A would-be grocer, three shops failing one right after another.” Belle shrugged, frowning in resignation. “First my mother had to work, to help make ends meet. By the time I was ten I’d joined her. When I was twelve, that was when my father ran off - he was sick of drowning in debt, being hounded by creditors. Decided to escape and start over.”

Scrooge looked down at his boots. “And two years after that, your mother…”

Belle had carried on thus far in manner suggesting if any of this ever gave her pain, time had faded it. But on this she paused, voice faltering.

“Well I woke up one day, and she was just - gone. No note, nothing. But I knew she had left - of her own accord - because her best dress was gone, the one she never got to wear anymore...along with the few pennies of our savings.”

She breathed in a sniff.

“I asked around; one of the neighbors told me they saw her catching the omnibus to the train station. The way I figure, she went back to where she grew up - she must’ve still had relatives living she never mentioned. I guess she thought she’d have an easier time, or a warmer welcome, if she came alone.”

A pause - no graceful way, perhaps, to conclude off that. Belle attempted nonetheless.

“So, there you have it.” She smiled gamely, eyelashes lowered. Something in her eyes glittered. “A short history to explain how I came to be alone in this world at such age as I was.”

Some would comfort her by saying it may not be how it looked - her mother was desperate but probably planned to come back for her eventually; certainly she must have _loved_ her.

Scrooge would not. He’d no interest, even now, in the usual socially approved lies.

Nothing about that ‘history’ was unique. These things were common enough among London’s poor. Young men went abroad and brought back mixed-race offspring who weren’t always well-received. Grown men dragged families down only to desert them. And yes, women abandoned children for a number of reasons - sometimes pragmatic as saving themselves.

Perhaps the only thing unique about this circumstance was now, to him, it had a face.

“I am sorry to hear all that, Miss Belle,” he told her - hoping his tone conveyed it wasn’t pity he felt but honest regret she’d been dealt such a hand. “There’s little I could say that would make any difference, or likely you haven’t already heard before. But I am sorry, all the same.”

“It’s life,” she replied, somewhere between clipped and breezy. “Not much to be done about it, in the end.”

He stared at a nonexistent point. Fist briefly gripped his chair, tight. “Some things. Beginnings. Things in the past. But the future is always still being written...for the most part.”

She slowly blinked away the last shadow, gave a soft wistful smile. “A story yet to be told.”

“Yes.”

As Belle got comfortable in her seat again, he didn’t add aloud: it was much easier to change a story’s ending when _less_ of it had been told.

It mattered little, though. He’d made as much peace as he could with the opportunities he’d lost. If people were described in the metaphor of stories, then his purpose now was in watching others unfold.

“Ha’penny for your thoughts, Mr. Ebenezer?” She teased, “It’d be _your_ ha’penny, originally, true-”

“Never you mind.” He absently rubbed his nails. “I’m not so interesting as you seem to think.”

“Now that, sir, is _anything_ but true.”

“No really, Miss Belle. I-” He glanced up, distracted at once: “You’re...skinning your orange with a penknife,” he noticed, bemused.

“Oh.” She blinked, stopping to look at the object in her hands. “Is that not how it’s done?”

He stood up and reached; she handed it to him. “You’ve never had an orange before?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when I was small.” She tucked the little blade away, brushing hand on her skirt. “Whenever I’ve money to spare for pleasure, I’d rather spend it on something that’ll last me longer than a sweet. A broadside, or a penny-blood.”

He kept methodically peeling her orange, but shot a look of dismay.

Broadsides were still the same news, technically, for much less cost; but- “You read penny-bloods?”

“Oh, they’re great fun!” she replied with unabashed cheer. “Thrilling tales of adventure, ghastly sorts of crime. All things captivating and delightful, to be sure.”

A contemptuous scoff. “An utter devaluing of literature.”

“I shall remind you, sir, proper books are expensive,” she said, lightly.

“I know.” He shook his head. “A shame enough. That hardly means that even cheap paper should be wasted on the dreck found in the common penny-blood.”

She feigned confusion. “That’s an interesting opinion, from one who enjoys the tale of Ali Baba.”

He frowned at her, knowing what she was trying to do. “When I was a child,” he stressed.

He held orange out to her - she took it from his palm.

As he went to clean his hands, he kept speaking.

“In any case, Ali Baba may be an adventure, but it’s far more...grandiose, than your serialized jaunts. Certainly, the details do not focus on exciting base fascinations of the commonest sort.”

“Your favorite story, and do you not remember it? Is Ali Baba’s brother not cut apart into four pieces and left a gruesome display to find? Does he not instruct his slave girl to kill most of the thieves by pouring boiling oil into their hiding place?”

“That’s diff-” He trailed off as he left the basin.

She smirked at him, sinking teeth into a slice of orange.

“All right, all right,” he huffed, disgruntled. “Although, point of order - Ali Baba did _not_ instruct Morgiana to kill the thieves with the boiling oil. She did that all on her own!”

“Oh well,” she responded, mouth partially full, “my mistake.”

Whatever he might’ve said to this glibness was diverted by sounds of the door opening, heavy footsteps entering the office.

“Sure you aren’t expecting anyone?” she questioned, rising to her feet.

“I’m certain I’m not,” he said with a frown.

A voice called demandingly from the other room, “Anyone in here?”

Belle went completely still, as Scrooge gave a start of confusion.

The humorless terseness always found in a metropolitan policeman could not be more distinct to any city-dweller.

“Back here,” Scrooge raised his voice warily.

The figure who stomped through the adjoining corridor couldn’t have been more typical if he’d stepped out of an illustration in _Punch_. Short, reedy with thick brown mustache, brim of his cap making glowering expression more severe. His truncheon was clutched, half-raised, in his fist.

“There you are,” the policeman said - Scrooge realized he was solely addressing Belle. “Saw you out there, I did, hurrying away from the newstand!”

“So you did, because I was,” she muttered - she didn’t turn, apparently not daring to look straight at him. “There’s no harm in that.”

“Mind yourself!” The response was harsh. “I’ll have no sass from the likes of you.”

“Pardon me,” Scrooge interjected, coldly indignant. “This is _my_ office. What’s this about?”

He wasn’t sure what took him more aback - this stranger, a common _policeman_ , barging in with demands, or how Belle was reacting. Mirth gone entirely she held still as a statue, face and shoulders taut with angry resignation.

“Just doing my job, sir,” he replied gruffly - offhand deference to a businessman. “When I witness a crime occurring, I’m charged to intervene.”

“What crime?” Scrooge challenged. The accusation had drawn more characteristic boldness from Belle, lifting head with an offended look.

“Petty theft is still theft, even if it’s done in a petti _coat_.”

“Ah, they employ wordsmiths down in the precincts now. How innovative,” he sneered. “I assure you, she hasn’t stolen anything.”

The truncheon pointed straight at the objects from the newstand. As if their presence alone was searing indictment.

“I didn’t _steal_ those,” Belle protested. “I bought them!”

“Oh, you bought them, you did?” came mocking retort. “ _You_ had coins to put down for a newspaper? Not to mention the oranges.”

“Did you even stop to ask if a theft happened?” Scrooge exclaimed. “Or did you simply make an assumption and tail her?”

The answer was obvious. The color and fabric of Belle’s dress, her kohl and lip rouge, made it safe guess what her profession was. It was well-known policemen considered some parts of society theirs to harass at will.

Watching it happen before his eyes though, to an acquaintance of his, he felt his anger increase by the moment.

“With due respect, sir,” the policeman eyed him, “you’ll find it might be best if you stayed out of this-”

 _“Excuse_ you? _”_

“-unless you’d rather I have cause to start asking what she was doing in here with you in the first place,” he finished, frowning pointedly.

Belle huffed a defeated laugh.

Scrooge glared down at the other man, head tilted back with practiced disdain and authority. He was on verge of daring the _insignificant speck_ to go ahead. Do his ‘job’, as he termed it.

His reputation might not go far with likes of Hooper and Thwaites, but civil servants were another story - any constable would have a stroke if he saw a man of Scrooge’s wealth brought in without evidence. Even _with_ evidence, they didn’t arrest men like him for what he was being accused of. Within an hour, he’d have this policeman fired and a groveling desperate apology from whoever his superior was.

Then his gaze darted to Belle - and he realized what he planned would only make things worse for her.

They didn’t need to prove she’d done anything. The poor, especially those already deemed criminal, were arrested on flimsiest pretense; it could take days - if not more - to make anyone care enough to sort things. No matter what, she’d be sleeping in a jail.

Difficult as it was, he endeavored to swallow some of his temper and pride.

“You’ve jumped to a monstrously incorrect conclusion,” he said evenly as he could. “The young lady is here because she works for me. She’s my assistant.”

“Your assistant?” the policeman repeated. “What exactly does she ‘assist’ you with?”

Scrooge gestured, acting nonchalant. “Any number of things. Since my firm is in process of closing I’ve no need for a regular clerk; still, I like keeping things well-ordered. And it’s more convenient to have someone on hand to run my errands. The newspapers she obtained at my request.”

The policeman’s frown deepened. An older businessman having a female assistant was hairsbreadth shy of audacious. But he’d remembered his station enough to hesitate over calling Scrooge a liar.

“Miss Belle, you still have the change to what I gave you, do you not?”

The policeman turned out her pocket to find the exact amount Scrooge said would be there - and luckily, not the penknife.

“There, then,” he determined coolly. “I believe that settles matters. Unless, you are not satisfied?”

The policeman scowled, gripping truncheon with both hands. But he recognized he was over his head, for having planned to make simple arrest on a presumed thief.

“You can show yourself out,” Scrooge couldn’t resist dismissing him.

“A good day to you then, sir,” replied the policeman in snippy defeat. “Apologies for the inconvenience.”

Scrooge only gave him a nod, making point to pick up one of his books and study it.

They heard the steps storming out again, heavy, and then the door slammed.

Belle waited until sound faded before she spun to stare at him. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“...You’re welcome?” He was nonplussed.

“Oh, well - yes, _thank you_ , very much so,” she said, distracted. “But still, I can’t believe it. Most wouldn’t have done that.”

He lowered the book to stare back. “Did you really expect I would stand here and say nothing, letting him arrest you for a crime you didn’t commit?”

Strangers out in the street might turn head to her troubles, yes. It was ugly but he could see that.

But they weren’t strangers, anymore.

Belle smiled wryly. “You told a lie to a policeman. If there’s one thing those little men don’t like, it’s being lied to. If he figures you out-”

He considered it. “Then we will simply have to make it so what I said isn’t a lie.”

She gave him look full of dubious amusement. “Oh?”

Scrooge closed the book, glancing aside as he set it down. “I _can_ hire you as my assistant.”

She clearly didn’t know whether to laugh. “To fetch newspapers and line up your ledgers?”

“You know...it’s actually not that bad an idea,” he insisted, thinking. “I do have any number of smaller tasks that can pile up-”

“You said earlier you prefer doing things for yourself,” she reminded him, folding her arms.

“Well…”

He made a flicking gesture, unable to articulate why he was contradicting himself. But having her around, he abruptly felt, might be good for him - she’d perspectives he sorely lacked.

“I wouldn’t be making this offer out of charity, you do realize.”

“Oh no?” If she didn’t quite believe him yet, she’d the expression of someone perhaps wanting to be convinced.

“There _are_ things that annoy me, that interrupt me, you could aid me with. Besides which,” he paused, “it may have come to your attention by now that I...am not always the best at dealing with people.”

Belle looked at the floor to keep from laughing.

“I haven’t always the patience, the finesse, to make a decent impression.” He gave thinly earnest smile. “But you _do_ know how to talk to people. Indeed over our short acquaintance I’ve seen you have a knack for it. You understand others and know how to set them at ease. Perhaps you could come along to...translate me, on occasion.”

“You want me to be your ambassador?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He could see her really thinking about it. “I couldn’t pay a clerk’s wages, I’m afraid - I know you’re literate, but can you take dictation?”

“Where’d you need me to take it?”

“No, I - it means...oh. I see. You’re making a joke.”

“Come now, Mr. Ebenezer, that’s an old one. You’ve never heard it before?” She smiled, head shaking. “But, no - my penmanship’s not up to snuff. Full of blots.”

“That’s all right. I can keep writing my own letters. I’ll have to look into it - what an _assistant_ typically makes. I would compensate you fairly,” he emphasized. “No more than that.”

She wasn’t some pet project. He truly thought she could do the job; he’d treat her as she deserved.

“That’s perfectly fine.” Going by her expression, they were on the same page. “I work and I get paid an honest wage for it. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

Some might think it another joke, to call _that_ work ‘honest’. But Scrooge understood - they’d similar sense of hardline practicality, it seemed, with such matters.

“I would give you your pay once a week, as I do my maid. And, like her you could take all of Sunday off, if you desire.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You always such a generous employer?”

“Ah...no,” he responded, blunt.

Belle’s expression became less pleasant. She nodded slowly. Perhaps remembering better who she was dealing with.

“I endeavor to make as many improvements in my dealings with the world as are required,” he said, somewhat feeble.

“Starting to sound like you’ve really got your work cut out for you.”

All he could do was nod.

Belle smiled. “Maybe I _can_ help you with that,” she concluded. “I could start tomorrow, if you like?”

Despite it being his idea, it took a moment to absorb what she was saying.

“Yes - yes that would be perfect,” he nearly stammered, not so surprised by her agreeing as by how _pleased_ that agreement made him. The last person he’d felt anything like glad about working with had been-

Well. She might not appreciate that comparison.

He shook it off best he could. “I do normally arrive at this office very early, often before six o’clock, but it might not be necessary for you to-”

“We’ll figure something out,” she interrupted politely. “We can talk about it, when I get here tomorrow - if you don’t mind, I’m going to take my leave.” She grinned. “If I’m about to switch to the field of business and respectable first impressions, I’ll need some very different clothes.”

“Ah - oh, yes, of course.”

She gathered up her things, pocketing what remained of her snack - taking, at his insistence, the magazines and one of the newspapers.

Bidding him good afternoon, she took off. Probably bent for another round of searching vendors at Houndsditch.

Alone again, he should’ve returned to working at once. He’d lost the better part of half an hour between the various parts of their conversation.

Instead Ebenezer Scrooge sat back behind his desk, and proceeded to ignore the books for awhile longer still, as he leisurely ate his orange.


	7. Blessed in a Laugh

_It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's, and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability!_

_"Ha, ha!" laughed Scrooge's nephew. "Ha, ha, ha!"_

_If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blessed in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance. - Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits_

Ebenezer Scrooge dreamed that night of the cotton mill - the one where every loom held a year of Scrooge and Marley business, spinning pound after shilling after pence of profit in his name.

Where before it’d been empty, now the floor was occupied. Children ducking between and crawling around levers and gears. Exhausted men and women bent double tending to the threads. Fingers worn down, eyes burning, never daring to rest.

And because it was a dream he knew them, their lives and fears and simple desperate hopes. He could hear every thought as they toiled - a cacophony blending with sounds from the machines, growing ever louder. It became deafening, maddening, as he clutched hands over ears to make it stop.

But it would never stop, because there was no escaping it - _none_ of these people would ever be able to escape, not a one. They labored printing money in his name. Because of that, they were doomed.

He woke with a flinch and a gasp. He lay in the dark trying to catch his breath; eventually heard the clocks strike three.

When he sat on the edge of his bed, raking hands across his hair, Erasmus appeared as a pale spot in the gloom of his chamber.

The cat nudged his ankle, purring concern.

Scrooge reached down to pet him wordlessly. He was still lost in his head, but the physical sensation helped.

By time he readied for the day he’d mostly recovered. Though as he shaved it required more attention than usual, for his hand would occasionally shake. But he remained stubborn - if he cut the end of his nose off, he would’ve put a piece of plaster over it and gone on without further regard.

It was only when he was halfway to the office he remembered what was supposed to happen today. Not that it would’ve made much difference had he recalled sooner - it wouldn’t have changed his morning routine. Still, the knowledge hung over him as he unlocked the door and set the fires and glanced around to confirm nothing was out of place - musing as he tried and failed to determine what his feelings were.

At five to six, a rap on the door. He opened it and in Belle came, with wind-stung cheeks and enthusiastic cheer.

“Good morning, Mr. Ebenezer!”

“Good morning, Miss Belle,” he murmured, as he got out of her way.

“They say the Thames is going to freeze solid again, if it gets any colder than this.”

“They say that every year, you do realize.”

“Oh, of course! And every year we must repeat it dutifully to everyone we meet.” She set down bundle from under her arm on the writing desk - unwrapping to reveal a pair of cottage bricks, visibly shining with warmth from the baker’s oven. “Look what I picked up along the way! One for me, one for you.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” he rebuked with a frown.

“No?” Curiosity too innocent for sincerity: “You’ve already had your breakfast then? What was it?”

He had to concede a pause. But he went on, determined.

“I hired you to assist me, Miss Belle, not nanny-goat me. Today we shall work out what the particulars of your duties will be - I assure you, seeing that I’m fed will not be one of them.”

“Will retrieving food for you never be something that might be expected of me?” she queried, simple-sounding enough.

He sensed a trap; answered anyway. “It might be asked of you, sometimes.”

“And, will you anticipate having to remind me at every moment every day what I’m to be doing when? Or will it be appropriate I act on previous instruction to see necessary matters done without you being bothered?”

“Well, yes, but-”

She went on airily, “So in that case - Mr. Ebenezer; _sir_ \- I conclude it’d be natural I consider it part of my job to see you eat regular meals, even if you forget to ask.”

He should be angry - no, he should be furious. But it’d been so long since anyone he’d direct authority over felt comfortable standing up to him, debating him - making _fun_ of him, even.

Actually, that never happened. He was so flabbergasted he didn’t know how to react.

“You know, most people would endeavor to make a different sort of impression with a new employer on their first day,” he managed at last.

Her expression became more restrained, but she tilted her head. “You are my employer, and I will treat you with respect,” she promised him seriously. “But with that due respect I remind you - you already knew what I was like when you hired me. And it was my nature that you said you wanted.”

She had him there. This unorthodox arrangement had been entirely his idea, to boot.

“Maybe rein it in a _little_ ,” he suggested, still mildly vexed. “It is first thing in the morning.”

“That is fair. Sir.”

He stood aside, rubbing around his eyes as she went to hang up her cloak and bonnet.

The dress she had now was far heavier and modest, in a small-checked pattern of charcoal grey. He belatedly realized she didn’t have on any paint, or if she did _he_ certainly couldn’t tell. There might still be some kohl - with eyes so dark and expressive probably none would notice, if so.

Why she’d bother was beyond him - but perhaps she was used to doing something to her face and would feel uncertain without. He could see comfort in the nuance of routine.

As she took off her hat, a thick braid fell over one shoulder down to her waist. Since this was his first actually seeing the hair that’d been significant to their earliest conversation, he couldn’t help examining it from where he stood.

She noticed; obviously remembering the same, she lightly asked, “What do you think? Did you overpay?”

The shared joke brought out a smile. “No. If anything, I received an excellent bargain.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” She smiled herself at the compliment, running fingers idly down the length. “I’ll pin it up in a moment. I left in a hurry.”

“That’s - not necessary, if it’s more comfortable to you as it is.” He faltered, unsure what to say in matters of appearance. He wouldn’t care about his at all, save for it controlled much of how a man was viewed by society.

But same was true for women, he recalled - perhaps even more. What happened with the policeman was stark illustration of that. Small wonder she hurried to embrace new professional caste with different clothes and wiping off the paint.

He cleared his throat, endeavoring to carry on usually as he could in the circumstance.

“While I appreciate the eagerness to begin, my former clerk wasn’t expected to start his day until seven. Perhaps that would be a better hour for you - particularly, as I just now realize, you likely have a farther commute.”

Belle shrugged. “All right. I’ll not complain about sleeping in a bit more.” She put hands on her hips, beaming up at him expectantly. “So. What’s next?”

Between them, they spent much of the day figuring what her duties would be. There’d be a lot of fetching things and returning them to their places, sorting papers to ensure they were organized when he got to them, more menial necessities atop that - sharpening pencils and the like. A bit of clerical duties, though without the skill - ultimately it boiled down to allowing him to work nonstop, removing every obstacle that’d slow or distract him.

She would deal with traders that came to the door, and any messages. If there was anything to tidy she could do it, though harsher tasks like sweeping the hearth and dusting were to be left alone - there was a cleaning lady that came with the building for that. Occasionally she might run errands, though he determined if it’d be longer than twenty minutes she should enlist one of the children from the street instead.

They compromised on subject of meals: she was not to bring him breakfast, but she was allowed to remind him to break in the afternoon for tea.

It was Belle’s idea they should get some crates so she could begin packing up what parts of the office he decided were ready to go.

She was a fast learner. And she preferred to be industrious, finding things to keep busy with on her own.

If he’d thought her manner might be too rough, improperly forward, he needn't have worried. When she spoke to those at the door, she seamlessly modulated formality and warmth - friendlier than he’d have been, certainly, but never inappropriate.

This didn’t surprise him. No doubt over the years she’d had to appease many types, building social intuition as a necessary skill to survival.

She moved a chair to corner opposite his desk to be in easy summoning distance if he thought of something while in midst of his work. If she wasn’t otherwise occupied he’d no objection to her sitting there reading, long as it didn’t compromise her attention.

The newspaper and _Punch_ were expected, though at one point he looked up to find she’d borrowed a dictionary off his shelves - attempt at improving her spelling, she explained.

Wednesday flew by. On Thursday, he’d an appointment with Hooper and Thwaites. She accompanied him.

There were many things, to go by his face, Hooper would’ve liked to say when Scrooge introduced Belle as his assistant. Fortunately, he was too bemused to say any of them.

Thwaites by contrast demonstrated pleased geniality; when they shook hands he took hers almost as if he’d press kiss to it.

“Miss Belle may act as courier, at some point in the future,” Scrooge explained. “If there are documents that can be passed between us without the necessity of our meeting. I wanted to be certain you’d know her, in that case; that you’d remember her face.”

“Oh, we certainly will,” promised Thwaites.

“Indeed,” Hooper went more woodenly.

Belle reacted to both responses with equal restrained amusement.

Things were so productive Scrooge felt he couldn’t work from home on Friday. Not the next day, either.

By nine o’clock in the morning already on Saturday, he firmly shut the cover to another ledger, satisfied. “There, done. That’s another set for 1840.”

He looked up to find Belle standing balanced on a chair, leaning over the window with a candle.

“It’s really not necessary to thaw out every pane.”

“Not necessary, no. But it does bring in a great deal more light. Doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Imagine how much you’ll save on wicks.” She paused. “Mr. Ebenezer, there’s a carriage coming.”

“Pay it no mind.” He’d pulled out the next ledger, dipping pen in ink. “I assure you, it isn’t for this office.”

“Are you sure about that?” She knelt down. “Because it looks to be stopping at this block.”

He could hear it - driver calling as he pulled the reins, horses stopping, wheels ceasing to turn. A door opened and there was a flurry of voices.

Scrooge stood up, eyes narrowed, listening. He could’ve sworn they sounded familiar.

Still watching, Belle got off the chair. “Yeah. They’re coming inside.”

“What-”

His questioning protest didn’t get very far - the office’s door slammed open. The footsteps and breathless panting that followed were unmistakably that of excited young boys.

“Uncle Ebenezer! Are you in?”

“Of course he’s in, don’t be daft. Why else would it be unlocked?”

“Ricky? Peter?” He swiftly crossed to the front room.

There they were - his grand-nephews, faces pink beneath hats and overcoats, grinning at him.

“What are you doing here?” Scrooge demanded in astonishment.

The door opened again. In came Charlotte, followed closely by Fred and Mathilde.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Fred greeted brightly.

“Uncle Ebenezer!” Charlotte went right for him, beaming.

It took him a moment to realize why she was waiting like that - she wanted a hug.

“Oh...hello, Charlotte.” He gave her a light one, awkwardly. Addressing her father he pressed, “Fred, what’s going on?”

“We’ve come to pay you a visit!” Fred’s younger son answered for him.

Ricky then wandered over to the writing desk, acting as though he might climb it for a lark.

Peter was looking around at all the papers and books with a careless schoolboy’s curiosity. He was going to start _touching_ things any second; it was obvious.

Mathilde stood by the fire, back to the wall, hands clasped. Charlotte stood next to her, but she was bouncing on her heels.

Scrooge had a vague moment where he wondered if he was having another nightmare.

“Hands in your pockets, boys,” Fred instructed. “And don’t start exploring just yet.” He came over to his uncle. “We were in the neighborhood. I thought we’d swing by.”

“In...in the neighborhood?” he went brokenly, at a loss. “Where were you all _going?_ ”

“Peter’s on his way back today. Emilia said farewell at home - she hates getting even the slightest bit emotional in public. But the rest of them always ride along to the stagecoach, so they can say goodbye there.”

“It’s so they can have every last minute with me, before being deprived.” Peter mockingly leaned towards Mathilde. “I know how much you’ll _miss_ me.”

“Right,” she retorted with the deep sarcasm of a girl.

“I’ll miss you, Peter,” Charlotte promised.

“Oh, of course you will, Lottie - because you’re the better sister.”

Peter knelt to embrace her, looking back at Mathilde as he stuck out his tongue.

“Fred,” Scrooge went sternly, making it clear he wasn’t fooled; “To the stagecoach out of London, from your house - this office does _not_ lie on any straight path in-between.”

“All right, no,” Fred admitted. “But I thought you’d want a chance to bid your own goodbye to Peter, since you might not see him for awhile.”

Scrooge absorbed that. “Oh, well - that does make a kind of sense. It was considerate of you.”

“Of course.” Fred chuckled offhandedly, glancing around.

Then he stopped, noticing Belle’s gloves and drawstring pouch left on the otherwise unused writing desk.

“Uncle,” he turned around, pointing – there was note in his voice that was hard to read, “do you have company?”

“Oh, no,” Scrooge went, distracted. “Those belong to my assistant.”

Fred’s eyebrows rose. “Your _assistant?_ ”

“Yes, my assistant,” he frowned, realizing; “who is being abnormally shy, right now. Excuse me…”

He didn’t have to go very far. Belle, he discovered, was concealed in the corridor; practically clinging to the wall so Fred and the children couldn’t see from that angle.

As Scrooge made eye contact with her, on verge of asking what on Earth she was doing, she shook her head at him, eyes wide.

He stared at her blankly, disbelieving.

“Uncle?”

He turned, about to respond to Fred’s query - saw the consternation on Belle’s face.

This, he finally understood, was more of that conviction her presence could sully his reputation. She must’ve thought it better if the family he’d only just gotten to know wasn’t aware of her.

“Oh – humbug,” he muttered. With expression fit to remind her he was after all _her employer_ he reached and took hold of her wrist, firm.

 _“Mr. Ebenezer,”_ she hissed.

 _“You’re being ridiculous,”_ he hissed back at her.

Did she think he could have her with him six days a week and somehow never have his nephew notice? Was he supposed to shove her into the cupboard every time Fred came by?

Understanding he wasn’t yielding this time Belle let go, allowing him to bring her out.

“Fred, if I may introduce you to my new assistant, Miss Belle Ledford – who ah, prefers to be addressed by her given name. Miss Belle; my nephew, Fred Clarkson.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand. Without hesitation, Fred eagerly shook it.

“The pleasure is all mine. I’m thrilled to see my uncle’s found somebody to keep him company in this dismal old place.” Fred shot him a glance. “Uncle Ebenezer, I’m surprised – you said you were retiring.”

“No, I still am. If things remain on track, as they are now, I should be closing in a matter of months. But there’s a great deal of tedium to get through, and Miss Belle is here to sort of…smooth things over.”

“I refresh his inkwell, and answer the door so the tinkerers don’t bother him,” Belle elaborated. “Oh, and I try to make sure he remembers to eat.”

Fred spread his arms. “Well you’re doing the Lord’s own work, then,” he declared with characteristic mirth. “Fitting, since you must have the patience of a saint.”

Belle’s anxiety seemed evaporated. “I perhaps shouldn’t reply to the implications of that regarding your uncle’s temperament in perfect honesty,” she said with primness undercut by how she smiled again.

“I shall regret having introduced the two of you, won’t I?” Scrooge realized at once.

“I do apologize for having interrupted,” Fred began again, “but actually, Uncle – I wondered if you’d mind watching over the children, while I get the last of the travel arrangements sorted?”

He stared in alarm. “Wh-what?”

“I have to drop off his luggage so it can be loaded. And I like to have a word with the driver, make sure he’s aware where Peter changes stages.” He gestured to his son, fondly. “He forgets to pay attention. One year, I swear he got halfway to Gretna Green.”

“You want to leave them here with me?” It probably shouldn’t be so hard to grasp - only for him, it was.

“It’ll only be a little while.”

“But this is hardly a place for - what am I supposed to _do_ with them?”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You have an assistant for that!”

Scrooge glanced to discover Belle had crouched down, saying something to Ricky and Charlotte, who were responding with enthusiasm.

“Be that as it may, Fred, I really don’t think-”

Fred lowered his voice, growing more serious. “Look, I thought...maybe you’d like some more time with them, alone, on your terms?” he suggested.

He was trying, in his well-meaning fashion, to do his uncle a favor. Perhaps even going further out of his way than it appeared.

Scrooge closed his eyes and took a moment to catch his breath.

“All right,” he conceded, lukewarm. “Suppose I could keep them occupied for a bit. Somehow.”

“Oh, splendid! Thank you.” Fred clapped his hands, turning to make way back toward the door.

He kept speaking with casualness, that belied how he was actually talking somewhat fast.

“Mind yourselves, children. If anyone is capable of giving me a thorough report on your behavior, it’s your great-uncle.” Gaze shifted to the oldest figure in the room. “I’ll take my time so you can have a real piece with them - think I’ll dismiss the carriage after the trunk is sorted, walk back. And of course at that point, I’ll have to stop for refreshment. So, I should be returning to retrieve them just after teatime.”

He grinned, winked, and then exited.

“Fred, _wait-_ ” Scrooge had undergone rapid shift in expression as the words sunk in.

He lunged for the door - too late. His nephew must’ve sprinted down the block the moment he let go of the handle, for his carriage was already driving away.

Scrooge was left standing there gaping after him, head spinning with bewildered sting of betrayal.

 _‘A little while’,_ indeed! Two hours or more was _anything_ but that.

“Why, I - I have half a mind to write you back out of my will again, young man,” he fumed and huffed to the pavement. “Yes. _Yes!_ See if I don’t!”

Having made his point to the empty air – and caused several murmurs and snickering from passerby, including the local children – he stalked back inside.

Back in the violated sanctity of his office, he felt paralyzed.

“That one’s something of a prankster,” Belle noted. “How, exactly, are you related to him?”

“He’s my late sister’s only child.”

“Your sister that played doctor with her dollies? On second thought, maybe I _can_ see it.”

He glanced past her and discovered what the children were up to.

The group was merrily demolishing what looked to be reams’ worth of writing paper. Ricky was stabbing his pile of pages with a letter-opener. Peter was tearing through his with bare hands, biggest chunks he could manage at a time. The girls were cutting out swathes with pairs of scissors - Mathilde making somewhat intricate flowers, Charlotte a crude chain of figures holding hands.

Scrooge’s throat closed up, demoting his voice to a hoarse squeak.

“Oh, oh goodness. What are they doing? They-”

“It’s all right,” Belle said in response to the stammering and pointing. “That’s already set aside for trash. I told them they could break it down, however they liked. It’s nothing important.”

He was able to breathe normally after that revelation, at least. “Should Charlotte be handling shears at that age?”

“Mathilde’s keeping an eye on her. For that matter, I’ve set Peter to minding Ricky. I’ve told the older children whoever’s done the best job by end of their visit will get a reward.”

“What sort of reward?”

“I don’t know. I told them you’d decide.”

“Look, if it’s escaped you somehow, I’m already in over my head,” he went snippily. “I applaud your quick thinking, I do, but could you possibly come up with ideas that don’t also make things worse?”

“What, because they require your input? You’re being a little absurd, sir.”

“Well - speaking of absurdity.” _That_ reminded him. “You know, it never occurred to me that I would have to make this clear, but I am not in the habit of hiring secret employees.”

Realizing he meant her behavior earlier Belle lowered her gaze, chastened.

He walked to the interior office to leave hearing range of the children, indicating by crook of finger she should follow.

“I am also not in the habit of having to repeat myself, and I already grow tired of it. I know there are people who would denigrate me for associating with someone of your background - I _don’t_ care. If ever I had vaguest desire to belong to the fashionable set, I permanently ostracized myself long ago by number of other shortcomings.”

His arrogance, rudeness, isolationist tendencies; his obsession with finances, open disdain for both religion and charity. By society’s values he was hardly one destined for popularity.

That’d been fine by him. What did he care for the London Season, calling cards or club memberships? His money gave him power, security. _That_ was what he’d cared about.

Even if much changed, he found his disdain for social vanity hadn’t. He’d no patience for those games. He knew he couldn’t be choosy but if he was to envision the company he now sought, it’d be people reasonable enough to not care about her past, or too polite to demonstrate they did.

“I will not have this discussion with you again, Miss Belle,” he told her, gently exasperated. “Give me credit to make my own decisions and be aware of the consequences.”

“I...I’m not trying to be impertinent, and I am sorry if earlier I made things at all awkward. But truth is, I’m not always sure you _are_ aware - I think the life you’ve led has kept awareness of some things from you.”

“Such as?” he demanded - about half as shortly as he could have, considering he knew it was true at least part of the time.

“The men you work with are one thing,” she tried explaining. “I imagine you want your nephew to do more than talk to you, eventually - you want his affections. You’ll never have those, not really, if he doesn’t have any respect for you.”

He had to scoff.

“If I haven’t lost his respect over the years, I doubt this would do the trick.”

“He’s a decent, upwardly mobile gentleman,” she insisted. “That sort doesn’t tend to look kindly on inviting the likes of me over. Nor, for that matter, on having me around their children.”

“You make it sound as if it’s somehow written on your forehead.”

“I’m a woman without worry what it’ll do to her reputation, working outside the home for a man not her relative. It isn’t hard to guess where I came from.”

That hadn’t occurred to him. That to those who wondered, the answer might be obvious. He still didn’t care, however. Not for his own sake.

“I know that you feel no personal shame over what you had to do to survive,” he stated, genuinely perplexed. “Why is it then you ascribe feeling that judgement onto so many others?”

“Because I’ve had years of experience with what people’s reactions are.” Her turn to scoff. “Why do you think you made such an impression that evening? Because you talked to me like I was a person.”

He gazed at her, struck. Such irony, he realized: simply trying to improve himself by treating those around him like they held no greater or lesser inherent value than his own – that’d made him appear more charitable, kinder than most.

Rather than lift his ego, it did the opposite. It only made him aware how easy it would’ve been, to behave better, long ago.

He sighed to himself quietly. Focusing back on matter at hand.

“You do have more experience interacting with people, Miss Belle. I’ve already said as much, and I’d never discount that,” he went carefully. “However I’ve learned a few significant lessons recently myself.”

He met her gaze in earnest.

“One is that, more people than you might realize are perfectly capable of seeing a person’s true character, and judging them on what is important.” He hesitated. “You never struck me as one to expect the worst before now-”

“I’m not. I only...well, I need to think about it, don’t I?” She looked down. “The worst. Both from life and people. Have to be prepared. It’s how I protect myself.”

That drew a sad chuckle from him.

“Yes, I understand that - better than you could likely believe. But I can tell you if Fred is going to think any less of you because of stark necessities in your past, then he’s honestly not the man I thought he was.”

“Well,” she paused, “he _is_ your nephew. Guess you’d be in position to know.”

“Not well as I should be, but you know that already.” He reminded her, “Fred was willing to take much more than a second chance on _me_. If that doesn’t demonstrate his own ‘saintliness’, I don’t know what would.”

“You do make a compelling point there,” she noted, somewhat lightly.

They shared a smile, a sort of silent laugh, over that.

“There. I consider the matter permanently settled.” He held a hand out, indicating the other room. “Now, please. I need you to focus your energies on saving me from these invaders.”

“I shall do my best.”

Before they could do anything else Charlotte appeared, scampering to them.

“Uncle Ebenezer! We’ve finished,” she proudly announced.

“Oh,” he endeavored to sound pleased, “good. You’ve all finished destroying things. In my office. Unsupervised.”

For a moment he stared into space.

“Come on,” Belle was trying not to laugh, “let’s check on them.”

She went ahead but Charlotte waited. She moved beside him, taking his hand again. He let her, bemused.

A tendency of some small children, he supposed, to become attached to new adults. He didn’t know what could be said about Charlotte’s discernment, she’d so gravitated to him.

As they walked into the next room she said, “I wanted to tell you something.”

“You did? And what is that?”

She grinned - revealing the loose tooth mentioned at last week’s dinner was gone. “He told me his name, at last.”

“Your rabbit,” he realized after a beat. “Well, good. What is it?”

“Tamlin.”

Mathilde was near the corner, overhearing enough to realize what they spoke of. “It’s from that book you gave her,” she told Scrooge.

He glanced at Charlotte - found her looking down, discontent. It ruined things perhaps to admit she’d picked the name and bestowed it in mundane fashion - rather than having it improbably whispered from a felt mouth into her ear.

“What a coincidence,” Scrooge declared, and Charlotte brightened immediately.

“We’ve finished, Uncle,” Peter said. His hands were full of shreddings, at which Scrooge tried not to look too close.

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“What do you want us to do next?” Ricky asked, excited. He was holding the scissors now, brandishing them.

“First, I think we should put _those_ away, somewhere - yes, thank you Peter.” The older brother had swiftly claimed them from the younger’s grasp. “You can give them to Miss Belle, she knows where everything belongs. And, speaking of that…”

The group had taken off coats, hats, various gloves and mufflers, and proceeded to put them wherever was most convenient. Mathilde at least - he assumed it was Mathilde - followed Belle’s example, draping things over the writing desk. The others however left objects literally everywhere.

“This will not do. No,” he insisted aloud. It could be admitted there weren’t places to hang so many children’s coats, but something had to be improvised.

“All right, for your next task - everyone, gather up your things and we’ll find reasonable places to stow them.”

To merely think it - four children, each with a small number of objects - it seemed straightforward; it should’ve been easy matter. But it wasn’t. Even with Peter and Mathilde herding the younger ones, there were quarrels and debates over what belonged to who, shouting and pointing over dropped items. Also he underestimated what interpretation children would take out of ‘reasonable’.

Ricky, for example, tossed his hat at the clock over Scrooge’s desk, seeing if it’d land and perch there. He thought that perfectly ‘reasonable’.

As Peter berated Ricky and Ricky argued back and Mathilde scolded both of them and Belle quietly went to put Ricky’s hat somewhere else and Charlotte ignored everything because, clearly, she was used to this; Scrooge wondered if by time they were sorted, their father would’ve already returned.

As he picked up the clock however to see it wasn’t broken, and return it to the wall, he found not even fifteen minutes had passed.

He retreated to his chair, clutching the armrests. “I think everyone should sit down, for a moment. Not on any tables or desks, but if you can’t find enough seats then...sit on the floor, someplace clean.”

“Oh no, not there.” Belle stopped Ricky as he went for the chair with the scarf. “That’s Mr. Marley’s desk. Here, I’ll help you find something else.”

“Can I sit on your lap, Uncle Ebenezer?” Charlotte inquired.

“Erm…” He weighed the options; ultimately conceding to her being very small and his not wanting to see her dress dirtied. “Yes, all right.”

He lifted her with some inelegance - she got comfortable on his legs, nestling against his side.

Mathilde had carried Cratchit’s former stool from the other room. Peter was more than pleased to sit in the center of the floor. Belle had given Ricky her usual chair - he sat halfway off it, legs kicking.

Belle remained standing, which of course the children noticed.

“Why’s _she_ not sitting down?” Ricky queried. “You said everyone should sit.”

“She’s a servant, silly,” Peter told him. “She’s not gonna sit down with the rest of us.”

“Well that’s not...precisely true,” Scrooge went. “She’s my assistant. That’s not the same thing as a servant.”

The line was thin at times. Certainly much of her work crossed into servant’s tasks - indeed, so had the duties of his clerks. Bottom-rung office employees barely moved above those in service, status-wise - still, he thought that miniscule level warranted observation.

“Is ‘assistant’ another way of saying a tart?” Ricky asked. “Because she looks a bit like one.”

He stilled and stared at the boy.

Belle’s eyes grew wide, but given perhaps the age of the speaker she was merely flustered, stifling amusement.

Scrooge was nowhere so forgiving. “ _Ricky_. Don’t you _ever_ say that about a woman when she’s standing right in front of you! I don’t care what you think she looks like. Honestly! I know both your parents, so I’ve no idea where that sort of behavior would come from. Surely, you were raised better. Mathilde?”

“I’m telling Mother,” she responded to the prompt dutifully.

“Yes, thank you.” He huffed, “But truly, Ricky, for shame.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” he mumbled. Peter reached and smacked him lightly in the leg, pointing. “I’m sorry, Miss Belle,” he added.

“You’re still learning, Ricky,” she said benevolently. “But you’ll remember this, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he promised.

“Is ‘tart’ a naughty word?” Charlotte softly questioned.

“It is in this sense,” he told her, not wanting to get into the details. He touched her hair, absently. “A tart is fine enough on a serving platter, but it means something quite different in reference to a woman.”

“That’s a fine rule of thumb, in general,” Belle noted, somewhat cheeky. “Ways of talking about objects are rather less respectful when describing girls and ladies.”

Scrooge nodded tiredly. “That does however vaguely serve to remind me - Fred mentioned he wouldn’t be back until _after_ tea. If we’re going to have to feed all of you, suppose we should begin planning now.”

“If you take us somewhere, that means we’ll need bundling up again,” Mathilde informed him.

“Oh, good God - no, then,” he said at once, simultaneously horrified and grateful for the insight. The madness of putting coats away had barely faded. “We’ll have to send out for it. I know we _should_ have things to make tea around here, somewhere-”

“Yes, I found them my second day,” Belle contributed. “I even made sure to stock up on tea leaves, and sugar.”

“Good. Yes, excellent. I’ll have you run out then, in a bit, for sandwiches and...I suppose some sweets.” This drew reactions of approval from the children. “Charlotte, is your mouth hurting you at all?”

“Not really. Things do get stuck in the space when I’m chewing, sometimes.”

“Something to keep in mind, Miss Belle, when making your selections.”

“Very good, Mr. Ebenezer. Are there any further instructions, or do you trust my judgement?”

“No, no,” he went distractedly. “Whatever you decide is fine. You might need a runner to assist you, however, food for six could be difficult to carry-”

She checked out the window. “There’s a boy hanging about, actually. A little one, with a big hat and an oversized coat.”

“He really does have a feeling for it,” Scrooge remarked - knowing she must mean Marty. “All right, he’ll do, but don’t let him be impertinent with you. He’s an attitude that runs contrary to his size.”

“Isn’t that always the way.”

Belle recruited both Ricky and Mathilde in helping her set up for tea. They moved the smaller table from the corridor into his office, shifting more furniture about. Then they sorted out cups and got the kettle boiling, taking dishes to be rinsed.

A pair of bootlaces had been found so Charlotte could entangle her great-uncle with Cat’s Cradle again. This time he watched what she did more closely, seeing if he could follow along.

“Would you like to show me your work, Uncle?” Peter asked while the others were busy.

“No, there’s no need. I doubt it’d interest you,” he replied, dismissive. “I’m sure it would be very boring.”

“That’s all right, sir. I find all adult work boring, really. I don’t mind.”

Scrooge wondered if he’d been instructed to ask by his father. “Well, all right. Take up that ledger there, I can walk you through some things.”

They’d gotten about halfway through a column of figures, and Charlotte had constructed some truly impressive latticework between his digits, when Ricky came over to the desk.

“Miss Belle says everything’s ready as it’s going to be,” he went. “Also, Uncle Ebenezer - I found this inside the sugar bowl when I went to wash it.”

He held out a scrap of paper, little more than what’d be twisted into a homemade wick. Scrooge frowned, too distracted for curiosity.

“Put it inside my pocket for now,” he said; Ricky did as instructed. “Charlotte, do you think you’ll be finished anytime soon? I believe I’m losing sensation in my wrists.”

“I’m going now,” Belle called. He nodded to her - only after the door shut, he registered it meant he was truly alone with four children.

It was irrational, he reminded himself, to instantly feel panic. Charlotte had freed him; he stood, flexing his fingers. He paced a few steps, tried not to notice he was watched attentively by four pairs of eyes.

“Mathilde,” he said at last, “do you ever do any of your drawing in ink? Or only in pencil?”

Before long she was situated at the side of his desk with pen, inkwell, and a clean expanse of paper. A reference book was propped in front of her from whence she copied an illustration.

Scrooge was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, as Ricky and Peter took turns trying to stump him with complex arithmetic. At one point Peter pointed out he could be making up answers - to which his great-uncle smoothly replied they could always check the math if they doubted him.

Ricky almost seemed game for it, but Peter accepted they’d take his word.

Charlotte had also been given paper and pen, sharing the inkwell with her sister. She was drawing a pony with little regard for conventional physiology - or perhaps a very fat spider.

Belle returned, laden down, Marty behind her. Scrooge went to help with the door.

“What happened to this not being a place for children?” Marty observed. Those waiting inside had come closer to eye the spoils with covetousness.

“Never you mind. Only six-pence today, but also half a sandwich and an almond biscuit.”

“Don’t like almonds, sir! Can’t I have one of those cream puffs instead?”

He could’ve challenged whether he really disliked almonds, or only thought the cream puffs looked better. Instead he simply gave the boy what he wanted, shooed him off.

Closing the door he turned to find Ricky biting into a ham sandwich.

“Stop! Did you wash your hands?”

“I told you,” Mathilde went to her little brother triumphantly.

Scrooge sighed. “Miss Belle-”

“Right. You heard him, little loves. Line up and we’ll get scrubbed.”

After each had a turn at the basin, the food was plated, the saucers were set out and the tea poured. He’d no idea what leaves Belle had gotten, but after such a morning the aroma was heavenly.

The office’s sole decorative carpet and some coats were arranged at the table so one could kneel comfortably. Belle joined the three older children there.

Scrooge ate at his desk after putting a cloth down. Charlotte sat on his lap again, would reach for her things beside his.

The children were mostly too hungry to talk, so teatime passed with little conversation about nothing in particular. It proved rather relaxing.

But soon as the soothing effects of warm tea and food and companionship sunk into his bones, the meal was over. They cleaned up plates, disposed of scraps, put away the tea things and rearranged furniture.

And still there was no sign of Fred. The children started to fidget.

He stole a pleading look at Belle. No point in pretending she didn’t know he was helpless.

Where the children wouldn’t see, she shot him a look her own in return - shy of an eye-roll.

“All right, you lot,” she announced, retrieving her drawstring bag, “gather around. I’ve got something exciting to show you.”

“What is it?” went Peter, as they crowded to her side.

“Well. It’s a story, and it’s a bit of a magic trick, all in one.”

Scrooge retreated behind his desk yet again, turning to face the window, trying to ignore them. He needed a moment aside to restore his energy.

Maybe if Belle kept them distracted enough, he could even accomplish some work.

“The tale begins,” she was saying, “years ago, before any of you were born. Before I was born, even. A whole generation into the past.”

“What is that?”

It was the sound of Mathilde’s voice that made Scrooge glance over - she was underwhelmed, skeptical.

There was a handkerchief in Belle’s palm; that must’ve been what came out of her bag. Scrooge shifted in his chair, peering with curious frown.

It looked to be older, made of fabric its current owner should not be able to afford. There were creases implying it’d been folded over and over the same, each time carefully, but still unable to keep from wearing the aging cloth down.

The actual treasured item however was likely not the handkerchief itself. At the very center, what it’d been unfolded to, lay a small fragment. Dark, with whorls of color showing it’d once been finely painted.

Belle plucked one end with delicate precision between fingertips, holding it upright so her audience could better see.

“It’s a hair comb. Or, what’s left of one.” She smiled, unabashed. “Comes from far-off India, part of a long-lost sultan’s fortune.”

“How do you have it, then?” asked Peter, already somewhat entranced.

“Well it was passed down to me, by my mother. Who got it from her father - the only thing remaining of her mother that he had. I don’t know how it came to be _hers_ : whether it was given to compliment her beauty, or if it was an heirloom in the family before that.”

She turned the fragment a bit. Light gleamed on glossy surface.

“Either way, this is it - all that remains of a tale of forgotten love.”

She was a gifted storyteller, Scrooge noticed. She modulated tone to make everything sound mysterious and captivating, drawing her listeners’ attention without them realizing.

The children leaned closer, the more Belle spoke. She began giving them a version of her family ‘history’ - a highly romanticized one.

In this version, she painted her grandfather as a handsome young explorer - with a mustache, Peter contributed, since daring adventurers must always have mustaches; a fact Belle readily agreed to. She took time describing the exotic luxury of the palace her grandmother dwelled in; until one could practically see the silk hangings of the harem floating on a warm breeze, as somewhere close by a sitar softly played.

When Charlotte asked if the women of the harem had a pet leopard, Belle said without hesitation they must have; with a beautiful jeweled collar, fed a diet of delicacies by hand. When Ricky asked if the Sultan had owned any elephants, she solemnly informed him he had a whole army, ridden by his soldiers to fight for his kingdom.

Where before the circumstances of her grandparents’ union had been factual sentences - it became a drawn-out soliloquy on the tender passion of love at first sight, the ache of romantic longing.

Scrooge shook his head. By now the children didn’t dare speak to interrupt. He meanwhile had opened his ledger, using the peace to be productive.

Though he was writing slower than usual, half-listening all the while.

In this story the lovers joined together in jubilant fanfare. But theirs was a tragic love, not meant to last.

Sounding farther away than it should, the door to the street opened.

“Hello?” Fred came in to them. “How’s everything going in here?”

Forgetting herself entirely, Mathilde impatiently shushed him.

“Father, don’t interrupt,” Ricky went, just as restless. “Miss Belle’s telling us a story!”

Fred made show of taking steps backward; first pressing a finger to his lips, then covering mouth with his hand to demonstrate how seriously he took this.

Soon as he was forgotten, he crept quietly to his uncle’s desk.

“Well, it seems that you’ve been managing splendidly,” he commented.

Scrooge made distracted sound in response. Not looking at his nephew, his gaze moved between paper and where the crowd was.

“I’m sorry,” Fred teased, “did you want to listen?”

“Oh - _stop_.” Remembering himself, he dropped his pen. “You know by all rights I should be rather cross with you for what you pulled. That was very...impertinent.”

“But so you’re _not_ cross with me, then?” Fred pointed out the loophole in his wording.

“No, I-” He cut off with exasperation.

He looked up at Fred, who was grinning rather shamelessly.

“Are you doing this as punishment for my neglect, or is this actually how you show affection?”

“No, it’s the latter,” Fred reassured. “Aren’t you disheartened to see what you’ve been missing out on, all these years?”

He was at least half-teasing, to go by tone. Scrooge could only frown at him a moment, shaking his head.

“I am giving you the benefit of the doubt that your intentions are noble but, really - please stop trying to force your children upon me. I’ll come to them in my own time, I promise.”

“In your own time, Uncle Ebenezer?” Fred became instantly solemn, folding his arms. “And how long will that take?”

It was the first sign he had given thus far that any hurt still lingered. That though he’d seemed quick to forgive, the past had not been forgotten.

Scrooge’s expression fell, feeling the weight of reproach.

“I…” He shut his eyes, uncertain how to respond. All he had was remorse, regret, and he’d already expressed those. “Fred, I…”

His nephew got closer - sitting on edge of his uncle’s desk, near where Belle had been once. This time Scrooge didn’t have heart to object to the intrusion.

“I don’t know what made you change your mind, about me. Maybe I’ll never know. Because it doesn’t matter. For years I’ve asked you to be a part of my life and know my family. The only response I can have to your decision is happiness.” He gave a forced smile, his eyes sad. “But my children are a lot younger than I was, when I started reaching out to you only to be rejected.”

“Not that much younger, perhaps,” Scrooge muttered. After his father died, Fred had written him letters, once a month then trickling off to less, for three years.

He hadn’t responded to a single one. He’d never read half of them.

“My point is, I don’t want to see them hurt. Look, I’m not trying to test you,” Fred went on. “I only worry what might happen if you change your mind again. Lose interest.”

Scrooge gave him a serious frown.

“I don’t start things that I don’t intend to finish. That isn’t my character, I promise you. I am still coming to your house for another dinner on Tuesday,” he reminded him. “If you keep inviting me, every other week or so-”

“Every week,” Fred interrupted, firmly. “It is my intention to have you as a guest at our home at least once every week. You live right by us in London, Uncle - there’s no reason not to.”

Scrooge shifted in his chair but didn’t argue. With a vague gesture, he conceded.

“Outside of that: if it’s really that important to you I can start visiting with just your children.” He almost pleaded, “But, with more of my own input, and more warning - and maybe not all four at once?”

“That’s reasonable.” Fred smiled. He glanced over. “Looks like they’re wrapping up.”

Indeed, by the sound of it. Belle was describing how on the eve of her wedding, her mother pleaded with her own father to tell her something about the woman she’d never known, anything.

 _“‘It breaks my heart, to be a bride without a mother here to guide me,’_ she said. _‘Please, at least give me something, so that I might carry her down the aisle with me in a way’,”_ Belle relayed with deep emotion.

“You know I don’t think that’s at all how it happened,” Scrooge remarked quietly, sardonic.

“Oh, hush. Don’t ruin it.” Fred shook his head. “She’s quite something, Uncle. Where did you find her?”

He hesitated, but after his earlier conversation with Belle he could hardly dodge it. “On the street. Near Baltham.”

Fred only looked half-surprised. He nodded to show he understood the context.

“What you might be thinking about why I hired her: I assure you it isn’t that.”

“I think that if you say you’re paying her to be your assistant, that’s exactly what she’s doing.” Fred chuckled. “Whatever impression I’ve gotten over the years, it isn’t that you’re much inclined to shame. I can’t see you having a secret mistress.”

He didn’t elaborate whether he could see his uncle having a mistress at all - Scrooge was glad for that. He didn’t want to know the answer.

Belle had finished her story. The children remained entranced as they were pleased.

“But what about the magic trick?” Ricky asked. “You said there’d be one.”

“Well, the story _is_ the magic trick,” Belle explained. “By the power of words, this piece of comb here was transformed, wasn’t it? In your eyes it went from being a scrap of junk, to a priceless treasure.”

That got approving ‘ _ooh_ ’s from the children. Peter and Charlotte applauded, their father joining in.

“Good timing,” he said. “I take it your great-uncle’s fed you, so we’ll stop to use a powder room before the stage. Then it’s off to furthering education for you, Peter.”

“All right,” Peter responded, feelings understandably mixed.

“Say goodbye to Uncle Ebenezer and Miss Belle, everyone, and then get your things.”

Another hug from Charlotte, a polite nod from Mathilde. This time Ricky insisted on shaking hands after he saw Peter do so. Scrooge gave the eldest pair each six-pence as promised reward – he couldn’t decide who the winner was, considering being assigned Charlotte was clear advantage over Ricky.

Then Fred had them dressed with baffling ease, and like that they were gone.

The office seemed to echo with unnatural silence.

“Shall I fetch you your fainting couch, sir?” Belle quipped, already straightening things.

“Come now, even you must be feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“Yes and no. They were a lot to handle. But there’s something reassuring, about the wonder and energy of children.”

She was gingerly folding the handkerchief around the comb tooth again. He’d a realization.

“That really did belong to your grandmother, didn’t it?”

She laughed softly. “Well I wouldn’t carry a random thing like that around for no reason, now would I?”

“You’ve told that story before. It was too practiced to be otherwise.” He smirked. “Interesting how that wasn’t anything like the tale you told me.”

“What, you’d rather have heard the romantic one?”

“No. I always assuredly prefer the truth.”

“It’s not _really_ a lie though, that version. I was careful, maybe a bit misleading, but I didn’t actually lie. My grandparents were brought together by passion, and they were forced apart by circumstance.”

“That circumstance being your grandfather losing interest,” he starkly emphasized.

Belle gave him an odd smile as she returned handkerchief to her bag. “There’s nothing wrong with a little escape, from time to time. I don’t forget the truth. But for brief moments I dress it up like something else, and pretend. After all, isn’t that what stories are for?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, not understanding.

She chuckled at him; how he missed what to her was obvious.

“Like I said, when money was tight, I’d choose a new story over a treat to nibble on. And when there wasn’t money, I’d gather around a bonfire or huddle up in a tavern, and we’d tell stories among ourselves. That’s how I’ve always gotten by. I _love_ stories - I always have.”

He remembered how he’d lost himself in the tale of Ali Baba. How he’d needed it so badly he’d been able to see a spirit version of him.

But he’d come back to reality and everything awful was still there, waiting. So he’d given up on the power of stories - dismissed them as childish things, lost along with his innocence. He would be practical, smart, have no need of such wasted nonsense.

Belle had endured hardship for far longer. Instead of dismissing her stories she clung to them tighter. A blanket to block out the darkness, when there was nothing else.

Once he’d have pitied her, at best. He’d have sneered at her foolishness, attributed it to weakness of character.

That wasn’t what he felt now. He realized - he _envied_ her, somewhat. She could be as practical as he was, he’d seen it. Yet she still had her stories. Somehow she’d remained, at heart, a child.

“A curious survival method,” he managed to comment, wry. “But I think it requires certain unique strength of character.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Everyone needs stories, Mr. Ebenezer. Even you.”

He smiled back faintly. “I didn’t say you were wrong.”

Belle went into the front office, to see what needed attention there. Scrooge started walking back to his desk.

Then he stopped, abruptly recalling - the paper Ricky had found. He reached into the pocket on left bottom of his jacket, pulling it out.

The edges were browned – who knew how long it’d been hidden in the sugar bowl? It was a tiny corner torn off something, folded in half.

He unfolded it. A single sentence had been scrawled out:

_A little sweetness once in a while won’t kill you._

It wasn’t signed, but that didn’t matter. He recognized the handwriting. He’d know it anywhere.

Lump in his throat he turned his head, stared at Marley’s desk. Once the moment of shock had passed, he had to laugh quietly to himself.

It wasn’t some manifestation; the paper was obviously too old for that. He’d rarely taken tea in the office, and never sugar. It was always Marley who refilled the sugar when it finally got low.

The last time, he must’ve gotten annoyed. Decided to wait it out, until for one reason or another his partner was compelled to take care of it. He’d left the note to taunt him a little, for whenever it happened. That was so very like Jacob.

The note had remained undiscovered, since before Marley had gotten sick; since before he’d died.

He shook his head over the note, and its unwitting prescience, with a smile. _‘A little sweetness’_ , indeed.

He could have thrown the paper away. But instead Ebenezer Scrooge folded it up again, and put it absently into the pocket inside his jacket – right over his heart.


	8. A Springtime in the Haggard Winter

_And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he thought that such another creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a springtime in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed. - Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits_

The days began to count by faster now. But that often seemed the way, in January. With the holidays over there was nothing of notice to make time stand still.

It might get colder. It might snow more. Otherwise, one day was like the rest.

Once Ebenezer Scrooge became used to newer aspects of his routine he slipped into pattern, awareness of time all but lost.

Every morning he fed his cat, spoke to his maid in passing as he left the house. He bought a newspaper on the way. He opened the office, greeted Belle when she came in, informed on anything she needed to be aware of. The morning hours ticked by with ledgers and letters.

At teatime he split the newspaper with Belle, sections exchanged between them.

Afternoon was more variable. If there were visitors, that’s usually when they came. Often there weren’t. He’d continue with the ledgers as Belle packed, tidied, did any number of things.

If she was going to read, it was during this part of the day. He’d brought some books from his home, added them to the shelves. Easy guess she hadn’t had access to a proper book for years.

She’d been pleased to find them, indeed - though to his chagrin, he still occasionally saw her with a penny-blood.

If there was no food at his house he’d go to the tavern after work. If he knew he’d leftovers waiting, he’d walk home. Once he was in he’d change clothes, feed Erasmus and play with him for a bit, then go to bed.

The bad dreams occasionally crept back, now. But sleep went uninterrupted more nights than most.

Before he quite knew, it was midway into February.

True to intention, Fred had continued inviting him over one night every week. Eventually it became Thursday was a standing invitation, unless conflict in Emilia’s complex social calendar necessitated a shift to Wednesday, sometimes Friday.

He no longer hesitated when Charlotte hugged him. Peter would sometimes add greetings or inquiries for his great-uncle in letters home, which were dutifully relayed for response. If Ricky was being particularly trying, it proved surprisingly easy to distract him by letting the boy quiz him about maths.

Charlotte was keeping him updated on progress of the tooth growing in. Ricky repeated misadventures from their household each week in detail perhaps more than wholly appropriate.

Mathilde continued to prove a tougher nut to crack.

His second visit, he’d brought a replacement present to make up for the travesty of the hair ribbons. “I don’t know if you’re ready to move onto painting yet, but I thought-”

“Yes. I started with paints weeks ago. And I already have a set of watercolors,” she informed him, as she opened the box.

There was a pause. Then she added, more quietly, “But this one looks nicer. It has more colors, and finer brushes. Thank you very much, Uncle Ebenezer.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he responded, feeling relieved more than victorious.

It was almost funny. For years he’d courted rejection; driven people to respond unkindly, proving what he’d supposed they were truly like.

Now the dismissal of one eleven year old girl who’d been stranger to him a few months before threatened to drive him to distraction.

He tried talking to Mathilde every week, asking her questions, encouraging her interests. It would’ve been easy to ignore her, with her younger siblings around - one delightful, the other rowdy. Instead he made point to pay as much attention to her, sometimes even more. Certainly, she was intelligent enough to be capable of interesting conversation - when he could get more than a few words out of her at once.

Weeks ticked by; he couldn’t help feeling Mathilde was restraining herself on purpose. Whether it was him, or she was inclined to mistrust adults generally, she was keeping wall between them out of stubbornness.

But one thing guaranteed to draw full strength of his conviction was challenge to his _own_ stubbornness. If it was to be battle of wills, the girl had no idea who she was up against.

“I’ve been thinking. Your father has indicated it’d be more than permissible if I wanted to borrow you children for outings, one at a time. I’d like to start with you.”

She eyed him sidelong, skeptical in the extreme. “Me?”

“Of course. You are the eldest, or in any case the eldest who is currently available. It makes perfect sense.”

She didn’t say anything in response. Just continued to stare at him, woodenly.

He acted like he didn’t notice. “I hear they’ve opened a new gallery, within the Pantheon Bazaar. I thought I’d take you for an afternoon, next week. We could walk around and I’d treat you to lunch.”

Her face screwed up in disapproval. “I don’t really-”

“Yes, yes I know,” he interrupted, gentle as he could while at same time holding unflinching determination. “You don’t like to look at pictures, you prefer only to make your own. But I think you _would_ like it, Mathilde, if you gave it a chance. And if you don’t, that’s all right. I’d take you wherever else you wanted instead.”

That surprised her enough for pause. “ _Anywhere_ I wanted?” she insisted. “Even if it was somewhere my mother might otherwise never let me go?”

“I give you my word.” He smirked, shrugging. “We both know your mother would disapprove of about anything, so ignoring her wishes is the only way of keeping our options open.”

This drew half a startled laugh before she caught herself.

He pressed his advantage. “I only ask you to try and see if you enjoy yourself. If not, there’s no harm done. It still gets you out of an afternoon of lessons.”

Mathilde thought about it, but that last point had unassailable appeal.

“All right,” she agreed.

He picked her up at eleven on a Wednesday. Belle had utterly failed to contain her shock when he’d told her to take the day off, that this he preferred to do himself.

He and Mathilde took a carriage downtown. He knew better than trying to engage her in conversation; it’d only get terse monosyllabic responses. Instead he let a comfortable silence reign.

He discretely watched as she looked out the window - relaxing a bit more, progressively, as she was allowed to get lost in seeing the buildings and streets change.

It was raining, rather heavily. But it was warm enough, for February, and Scrooge was undeterred. He’d brought along a large umbrella.

“You should probably hold my hand, Mathilde,” he observed to her. “For safety’s sake.”

“Oh, all right,” she softly sighed.

She didn’t stand any closer to him under the umbrella than she had to. The gloved hand inside his own maintained a resentfully stiff and loose grasp.

Once inside the main interior of the Pantheon he took a moment to shake off his umbrella, engage in a futile attempt to scrape some stray droplets from his overcoat.

“All right,” he looked at her, “where should we start?”

She started. “You’re asking me?” she demanded. “You’re letting me decide?”

“Yes,” he calmly answered.

It was clear she’d no idea what to make of that. She blinked at him; turned and blinked more at the surroundings, dazed.

In the end she pointed at random, with touch of defiance - waiting for him to argue with her choice.

“All right.” He headed that way, pausing when she failed to follow. “I don’t think you need to hold my hand in here, perhaps; so long as you’re willing to stay relatively close.”

Taking this in, Mathilde nodded and caught up with him.

The Pantheon Bazaar was as much for looking as it was for purchasing - so long as one was clearly at least respectfully middle-class. Anyone lower would no doubt be asked to leave.

For those remaining, there were shelves of decorative items in each gallery, far as the eye could behold. Ivory trinkets, fine furniture, works of tinted glass.

It was nothing such as Scrooge ever cared for. While he preferred what he owned to be well-made, anything but cheap in appearance, the decorative arts were always felt to veer immediately into opulence to him. Hard to get him to even enter places such as the Pantheon, once - unless he felt like an extended session of walking around with a disdainful sneer.

This time he restrained himself. Instead of looking directly at the objects he followed behind Mathilde, taking in her expression. Only then would he look back at whatever held her attention - trying to see if he could recapture any of that appreciation by seeing it through her eyes.

At first Mathilde seemed almost disinterested as he was. He couldn’t precisely blame her – they’d started in an area replete with carved dressers and desks and dining tables; what eleven year old cared about furniture? The next gallery was little better: sets of fine china. Though some of the delicate painted images were vaguely captivating, and he could admit to being impressed by the deep colors of the Wedgewood dishes.

Mathilde kept glancing back, paying as much attention to _him_ as her surroundings. Searching for impatience, maybe, or a sign he’d change tactics any moment.

He kept hands lightly folded in front of him, face neutral. Said nothing, continued letting her lead the way.

Eventually she grew bored with searching for reaction. She stopped constantly turning back and started spending more time taking in things in the galleries.

She was mildly captivated by the displays of fine crystal. Perhaps the colors, or how the light reflected. There was a chandelier she stood directly under, rotating on her heels as she gazed up.

There were clocks of varying shapes and sizes. The larger ones were covered in filigrees or had little figures come out and dance around as the hour struck. For demonstrative purposes they were rigged to strike the same time minutes apart, over and over, some with tinny musical chimes and others with great pealing gongs.

Mathilde watched them awhile, as nearby her great-uncle tried not to twitch. He kept clutching his own pocket-watch, feeling indescribable relief when she finally moved on.

She wasn’t terribly interested in anything shaped like an animal. But things portraying a human figure she lingered over, head tilted slightly. Studying folds of drapery, whorls of hair, curves of musculature captured in stone or porcelain or wood.

They’d been there awhile, gone through many galleries, and they hadn’t even gotten to the paintings yet.

“Well, what do you think?” Scrooge went – hopefully making it clear it was still entirely her decision. “Have you seen enough? We could always go and do something else.”

Mathilde paused, disconcert obvious. “Oh. No, I thought we could keep on going.”

He smiled, trying not to appear visibly pleased with himself. “All right then. If you like.”

A detour through staggering array of lamps, then another gallery featuring fabrics – carpets, cushions, even wall hangings. Then finally they were at the pictures.

A slight tension set in her as they approached, and this he realized he recognized: the reluctance to like something, merely on principle. He gave a little more space; tried not to watch her so much, at first, staring at whatever painting was next to one she was eyeing.

They wandered from one space to the next. Each time she moved slower. Lingered longer. Looked more, closer. Eventually tension faded.

There was a picture near a corner Mathilde stood before, studying. When it became clear she wasn’t about to move on anytime soon, he sidled over cautiously.

Standing beside her, he took in the painting. A young woman with red shawl and straw hat stood down a wooded path with hand on her hip, smiling. He knew just enough to recognize it as slightly newer style, but nothing gauche or revolutionary.

“What do you think of it?” he asked Mathilde. Not interrogating; soliciting opinion.

“I’m not sure,” Mathilde answered slowly, thoughtful. “I like her expression. How she’s looking right at us. She’s alone, but you can tell she isn’t at all afraid.”

“No,” he concurred, after moment’s consideration. “She isn’t.”

After that they found something to say about each painting. Normally it was incredibly minor. Mathilde observing she thought two figures were posed oddly, or she liked how the waves had been captured in a seascape. Scrooge confessing he couldn’t see the appeal of a certain composition, or he liked the colors of another.

There were classical references in the depictions often lost on her, that he was able to explain. Likewise where he was befuddled by scenes clustered with flowers, Mathilde already knew some of the symbolic language.

In the main part of the building was a little cart selling sweetened water-ices. He bought her one before they moved to the next gallery.

It was growing more crowded, people coming inside to escape the rain. As they crossed through he instinctively reached out to not lose her - she let him take her free hand, easily, holding on without second glance as she ate her treat.

Mathilde grew more opinionated and observational. She didn’t know much actual technique yet but she understood shading and noticed how scenes were arranged to draw the eye. She also had some dismissively amusing things to say about how certain artists had chosen to depict beautiful women, or intended romances, or subjects of seated portraiture. Mostly he listened to her speak, offering occasional _‘go on’_ when she became distracted by her thoughts.

“Do _you_ like art, Uncle Ebenezer?” she asked him at one point, almost offhand.

“Usually no,” he admitted. “But there’s a certain way to look at it to better enjoy it, of which until now I could never seem to find the knack.”

He stole a fond glance. She was licking the paper to get the last of her water-ice, heedless to anyone’s attention, or proper poise or restraint.

“Perhaps I needed the right guide,” he concluded.

They stopped for lunch, thoroughly worn out by walking. It was amazing how much ground could be crammed into the indoor galleries of a bazaar.

As they sat, conversation drifted back to some of the things they’d seen, noteworthy objects recollected and re-examined aloud. Mathilde didn’t even notice when topics shifted off the day onto adjacent things: a game she’d invented with Charlotte, a quarrel she had with her mother, a new dress she hated, how their Tiger was doing, how she was reading Jane Austen, how she liked kites because they reminded her of birds.

“Father says when we go away for the summer to the seaside, he’ll let us get the biggest kite we can find. But I’m afraid Mother won’t allow me to run with the others when they take it out.”

“I’m certain there’s nothing to worry about,” he said with more assurance than he felt. “Your mother has her _notions_ , to be sure; still I think even she’d see the unreasonableness of making one child sit out and watch as the other three play.”

“Maybe,” was all she’d respond, gazing down at her plate.

He cleared his throat, before her brooding could sink too deep. “If you still have room, I noticed they’ve some spectacular-looking cakes for dessert.”

She shot a look at him, surprised. “But I already had a sweet, earlier.”

He waved a hand. “What does that matter? So long as you aren’t going to make yourself sick, I see no reason not to let you enjoy your day out to the fullest.”

The smile she gave was shy, almost nervous. But it was more than he’d gotten out of her in weeks.

She had a slice of some sort of chocolate torte, daintily restraining herself over the last three bites.

“You finish it, Uncle.” She pushed her plate to him.

“I don’t usually…” He hesitated, staring at it. “Well. All right.” He supposed it’d be rude to refuse.

“Were you thinking about buying anything?” she asked when they started to leave - she’d taken his hand automatically.

“No. Why, you saw something you couldn’t live without?”

She gave the suppressed giggle any child did when an adult was being ridiculous. “Not really.”

“No? Nothing to liven up your bedroom? How about that writing desk with the marble top?”

“The one with the big oak legs carved like giraffes and deer heads?”

“And zebra,” he reminded her. “Don’t forget, one of them was a zebra.”

“I think _you_ should get that,” she pretended to insist. “And put it in your back office, where you work.”

“I don’t think it would fit with the rest of the room’s decor.”

“Maybe if you got a lion-skin rug, to match.”

“Oh, I could never do that,” he said, a touch solemn. “I’d hate to see it looking at me every day, with its sad glass eyes.”

“Those are never made up to look sad,” she pointed out. “They’re supposed to look ferocious.”

“Yes, I know. But they always look sad, to me.”

They reached outside, her practically tucked against his elbow, huddling under his umbrella. As they crossed the square to where they’d catch a carriage, both became aware of a group of children running around nearby.

Dressed in lower-class clothes, no parents or nannies to restrain them, they jumped into the largest puddles, splashing and laughing uproariously.

Scrooge began to scowl at such careless merriment - thinking disgruntledly all it’d accomplish was bad colds and muddied coats and ruined shoes. But then he glanced at Mathilde.

Oblivious to his reaction, she watched the others with wistful open longing.

 _Eleven years old,_ he thought, _is far too early to not be a child anymore, if one has any choice._

Carefully he removed his hand from hers, taking half a step back.

Mathilde turned around, looking up at him with uncomprehending frown.

“It is so very wet out today,” he remarked. “If I wasn’t paying enough attention, it would be easy for you to be splashed by a passing carriage. Entirely my fault, of course. No one would question it further.”

She stared at him and then, as words sunk in - she gave the most joyous beam of a smile.

When he returned her at last, her clothes were soaked, dark locks hanging lankly; she was bundled in his overcoat to warm her. But her face was still giddy, practically shining.

Neither parent was home. As she was hustled upstairs to change and be thrust before a fire, he borrowed paper from Fred’s desk to write out most contrite apology for his carelessness.

Air of caution hung overhead when he arrived next evening for dinner. But upon entrance he was waylaid by Fred, who informed him Mathilde had dried by the time her mother got in - so he’d thrown away the note, pretended to be none the wiser.

His attitude seemed to be _‘it can happen to anyone, but please don’t let it happen again’._ Which was certainly reasonable.

Scrooge didn’t intend to make habit of letting children jump into puddles outdoors in the middle of winter, and a part of him still wondered what in the world he’d been thinking.

Still, when Mathilde greeted him eagerly as her siblings did; wanting to show him her latest drawing unprompted, talking to him freely – it was difficult not to feel it’d been worth it.

He was making bold attempt to help Ricky with multiplication while simultaneously complimenting a picture Charlotte had made borrowing her sister’s paints - of, she claimed, a sleigh drawn by cats; one of course being Tiger - when he overheard it said that Peter was expected next Friday.

“He can’t be having a break already?”

“Oh, no - it’s his birthday,” Fred explained. “We let him come home for his birthday.”

He sunk into bitter silence, to think there was a boy so loved and fortunate to be brought home from school for such an occasion – what a contrast to his own childhood. He almost missed what Fred said next.

“Actually, I was wondering if you mightn’t like to do something with him.”

Scrooge was pulled immediately from resenting to baffled. “Me? Surely he’d want to see the rest of you more.”

“Well he’ll be with us the whole time! We’re having a special dinner on Sunday, all of that. Which, by the way, I hoped you’d be here for that too. But to him, that’s every year - I’m sure he’d also like to do something exciting.”

He gave Fred a blank look. “Are you implying of the two of us, I’m somehow the more exciting?”

“Oh, I’m dreadfully boring,” Fred said frankly. “Even on days when I’m the best father in the world, my children still think I’m boring. I don’t think any child can ever be excited by their own parents.”

“Perhaps not. But, still...you really think that’s what _he’d_ want?”

“I’ll ask him. But I expect so: you’re novel to him. You should make the most of it, while it lasts.”

Clearly he meant that as encouragement - what Scrooge felt instead was enormous pressure.

He rather hoped Peter would be a sensible, normal boy who’d hardly want to throw away his birthday on a great-uncle. He stressed that if Peter wasn’t interested, no need to force cooperation for the sake of his feelings. He’d understand, truly.

Of course, the day wayward student arrived, note was dispatched letting Scrooge know Peter was thrilled to have an outing. Worse, it mentioned he was looking forward to having Scrooge ‘all to himself’ - ruling out bringing along the other children or even his assistant.

Mathilde had been a challenge, with an end goal he’d coveted. This - it felt more like an imposition. Peter didn’t need someone in his corner; Scrooge felt all he could possibly do was embarrass himself with how little he was capable of being entertaining.

With apprehension he tried resigning to his fate. He arrived at their house, felt sense of doom only increase when he found Peter so eager he was already readied and waiting.

Soon as they were on pavement outside, Scrooge decided to dispatch with pretenses. Peter was turned thirteen; he didn’t need to tiptoe around his understanding.

“I’ll be frank, I’ve no idea what you were hoping for from me. It’s been some time since I was your age. Far as suggestions on what to do with this afternoon go, I’m at a loss.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” Peter wasn’t stymied. “I have some ideas myself, actually.”

Suspicion raised its head. “You do?”

“Yes!” Peter grinned. “I _did_ want to go out with you today - anything to skive off another talk how I’m another year older, another year closer to being a man. And so on. You don’t mind being my escape, do you? Please say that you don’t.”

Scrooge’s eyes narrowed. He should’ve thought of it sooner.

“You were _hoping_ I’d let you do something that your parents wouldn’t.”

“Well, yeah. I had an inkling you might be up for it.” He gave as close to a pout a boy his age would allow himself. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

Scrooge started walking slowly, leaving Peter to follow. He didn’t think he’d want chance of the rest of the family overhearing.

“You aren’t doing much for the release of my old philosophy on human nature,” he grumbled.

It was one thing to become indulgent relative by choice. It felt markedly different, being approached with hand outstretched.

“What was that?” Peter asked, bemused.

“Oh - never _mind_.”

He stopped, thinking hard. There didn’t seem much opportunity or inclination for Mathilde and Peter to compare notes, but it gave him pause. _Was_ he being unfair?

He’d clarity to piece out the source of his feelings now, unlike those years he’d pushed away Fred - spite, and envy. But it wasn’t Peter’s fault he’d a happier childhood, any more than it’d been his father’s.

He sighed. “Very well. These ideas of yours. What were you thinking?”

“Well,” Peter began brightly, “remember when I asked if you knew about whist-”

“I am _not_ letting you gamble,” he cut the boy off, swift.

“Aww! But, it doesn’t even have to be some fancy place downtown!” Wide youthful eyes emphasized what little understanding he had of the mature things he was suggesting. “Don’t you have any cronies you could call upon, find where there’s a private party? Maybe in the back of some seedy tavern, or a gentleman’s club?”

“Oh, _goodness._ ” Scrooge pressed hand over his face. “I’ve a mind toward telling your parents they’d do to be more careful about what you read.”

“I borrow the best stuff from my friends, you know. We share and pass around.”

“Yes. I have some memory of what goes on with groups of boarding school lads left to their own devices-”

Then he dropped his hand, recalling other illicit activities besides sharing contraband. After all, he’d gotten Peter to admit he played cards.

“What did you do with the six-pence I gave you?”

“What did I do? I doubled it!” Peter was full of happy pride. “And well, then I tried to go in for doubling it again, and lost the lot. It’s all right, though.”

“ _Peter!_ ” He’d sudden visions of Fred’s eldest son rendered a bankrupt the instant he came of majority. “It is _not_ all right! If you must gamble - no, you _shouldn’t_ gamble, at all. Let’s start there. But if you must, never bet more than you can afford to lose, and walk away once you’ve won something. Certainly don’t throw away all the money you have!”

“It wasn’t the only money I have. I’ve been saving all year for the summer holidays. That’s what I’d planned to use today.” Peter frowned. “You didn’t think I wanted to play on your bill, did you?”

“That is wholly besides the point,” he snapped. Though truthfully, that did make him feel marginally better. “Perhaps I sound like any other grown-up to you right now, but you saw some of my accounts. Do you know how many floundering businesses I purchased were that way because the men running them went over their heads in gambling debts?”

At least it was the one time of year Peter couldn’t beg for a trip to a racetrack.

“I wasn’t looking for trouble,” Peter protested, softly. “I only wanted a bit of adventure, and to spend some time with you.”

“Putting those things together, that was your first mistake. Peter, I promise you, I am the least adventurous person you will ever meet.”

“That’s not what Father says.”

“There’s little point in trying to win me over with manifest lies.” Rather harsh, he realized after it was said - the wrong button pushed too hard for restraint.

Peter insisted, “He says you were bold enough to strike out on your own with nothing but your wits and the backing of one partner, when you were practically the same age he is.”

He studied the young face, forced to concede it didn’t appear he was lying.

It’d never occurred that his nephew found something about him admirable, and for a moment he was confounded by conflicting emotions.

But Peter was still waiting on him. He shut his eyes, trying not to groan.

“Look. I can understand desiring an...experience for your thirteenth birthday, and it _is_ nice you asked me to be part of that - ulterior motive notwithstanding.” He pleaded, “But, couldn’t you think of something a bit more age-appropriate?”

“You think thirteen is too young to gamble?”

“I think forty-eight too old to be an accomplice to it.”

Whether Peter could see this logic, or merely accepted he was making no headway - he did seem to give up his idea. Forehead scrunched and lips twisting, he considered.

Then grinned again, with the surfacing of satisfactory runner-up. “How about a trip to the wax-works?”

The word _‘no’_ almost erupted from his great-uncle at once, but he caught himself and stopped before he made the syllable.

What Peter asked for was ghoulish and common, certainly it was something his parents would’ve never agreed to; at least not his mother. But it was an easy request, far more fitting for children. There’d be nothing scandalous in them going.

It was only a matter of Scrooge being able to stomach his own presence there.

He supposed lately, he’d been through worse. Another scrap of self-image sacrificed - if a boy’s birthday treat wasn’t a _noble_ cause, there were still less worthy ones.

“All right.” He didn’t quite sneer. “And of course you’ll want to see the whole thing? Including the Chamber of Horrors?”

Peter was merry now, recovered from previous denial with ease. “Well, obviously!”

Scrooge did groan, quietly, under his breath. Then he kept walking, until they found a hackney.

They got out at Marylebone Circus to avoid the crowds, going the rest of a short way on foot. The Baker Street Bazaar was busy on a Saturday afternoon - many of its visitors heading to the same place.

A sign overhead proclaimed _Madame Tussaud & Sons’ Exhibition and Historical Gallery_.

Advertisements lining the walls tantalized with names of the characters found on display within. Peter kept pointing excitedly, giving whatever awful things he knew about each, as they waited for their chance to go inside.

Scrooge counted the people around them, then counted again separately for men, women, and children.

When it came time to pay, he handed over an extra shilling for two admissions to what was still listed officially as the ‘Separate Room’. Apparently the descriptive renaming was a recent change.

The enthused look on Peter’s face as he darted around, openly gawking - reward enough to restrain Scrooge from being completely miserable. He settled for feeling indifferent and out of place.

The first part was where the gallery took claim to being educative as well as entertaining. There were scientific models, informative plaques upon the walls. The highlight however was the original source of fame: death masks of various French royals and aristocracy that’d been guillotined.

Peter and other children there made the expected gleeful comments over seeing a parcel of dead Frenchmen; too young to appreciate this lot had met their end before the rise of that grasping Napoleon.

Scrooge eyed the wax faces. Vaguely surprised, even impressed by their details and craftsmanship.

Mostly however he was nonplussed, for he couldn’t detract from awareness these were dead men and women. Overt reminders of mortality, of people who walked the Earth once and now were no more, sat differently with him these days.

After discovering his reaction to the masks, he’d new reason for apprehension over what lay in the next room.

It’d left Peter’s mind entirely he was thirteen and should be expected to comport himself with dignity - he grabbed his great-uncle’s arm, tugging his coat.

“Come _on_ , Uncle Ebenezer!”

Wordlessly he let Peter drag him through the doorway.

He’d expected atmospheric shadows. Somehow the real brightness made it worse. Illuminating from every angle this temple to the macabre.

In a line along one side, as if summoned to curtain call at the end of a play, were the famous murderers. Not masks but full figures, dressed and standing at the ready, as if intent at moment’s notice to carry on their criminal deeds.

Behind them were sketches taken from life, to better boast the likenesses - never mind some of these went to the gallows decades ago. Here they remained, trapped in waxen disrepute. Their ignominy never forgotten.

He remembered the Bank of England giant, suddenly; he glanced into the corners. Scouring nervously for a spectral face to pair with any of those made in wax.

But surely, he reasoned, if one was already an unhappy spirit - the last place they’d choose to linger was near a mockery of themselves, a testament to their misdeeds?

He’d a moment of disorientation: picturing a scowling wax dummy of himself propped beside notorious scoundrels Burke and Hare.

He turned away, twisting so sudden he about knocked over a little girl in pigtails. Gulping, he stammered apology.

But she hadn’t even noticed - she kept going right past him, so eager to leer at the figures.

At opposite side of the room was Marat, who’d probably held place alongside his countrymen in the first gallery once, but had since been banished here, where his appearance better suited.

Posed in a bathtub, his tilted-back face was contorted in reenactment of his death. Scrooge stood there gazing at him distractedly.

He was trying to keep from attempting a calculation - an _experiment_ \- in his mind. Which was worse: a few instances of direct murder, or hundreds lost through deliberate inaction?

He supposed it didn’t matter. Dead was dead, all the same. A king and queen on display within close distance from executed criminals was wonderful illustration of that.

Scrooge lifted his head, closed his eyes, pretended he was elsewhere. He used the headcount he’d taken earlier to figure how much money the gallery likely made each hour - that soothed him, until at last Peter was ready to go.

Back on the street they walked rather than attempt hailing a cab. Competition was too fierce, and Peter seemed pumped of energy, so pleased by the experience. Scrooge wanted the sounds and sights of the city, the reminders of life going on around him - reassuring him he was still present, still part of the world.

Peter kept exclaiming over and over about what’d been inside, as if he’d forgotten his great-uncle had been with him. Or perhaps it was easier to absorb outside his head, hearing his voice aloud - Scrooge knew what that was like.

Unlikely though it seemed as Peter talked on, he started to feel better. What did it matter, how _he’d_ reacted? The trip hadn’t been for him.

If Peter’s happiness wasn’t contagious, it did well enough to banish his self-pitying gloom.

“So you did enjoy yourself then; did you, Peter?”

“Absolutely!” The response was immediate, gushed. “That was top-notch! Thank you so much for that, Uncle. This is one of the better birthdays I’ve ever had, truly.”

He had to smile, wan as it was. “I’m glad that it didn’t disappoint.”

 _And that it appears I didn’t either,_ he silently added.

They’d gone less than a block when they came upon a barker, only a few years older than Peter himself. At the top of his lungs the lad was informing anyone who heard that there was a nearby penny-gaff.

“The boldness of them never ceases to amaze,” Scrooge murmured.

The police would raid the illegal theatres from time to time, seize their props and puppets, chase away the children, arrest the performers. More sprung up, faster than old were shuttered.

The fact this barker was here blatantly advertising was testament to what little anyone _really_ cared. Even before, Scrooge wouldn’t have wasted energy on contempt.

But then, how could anyone with savvy resist the opportunity - standing so close to Tussaud’s wax-works guaranteed a pavement of clientele who hungered after the shocking and grisly.

He took a sideways glance at Peter, wondering if he thought thirteen made him too old for the penny-gaff.

He needn’t have wondered: the boy was already accosting the barker, wanting to know if they were doing ‘The Red Barn’. What other show based upon real murder would be on his mind, having just ogled the waxwork of William Corder?

Sadly they were not. They were doing ‘Jonathan Bradford’.

Peter didn’t disguise his disappointment. “I can’t believe it isn’t ‘The Red Barn’. It’s practically always ‘The Red Barn’.”

“We did that one all last month,” the lad told him, unbothered. “Come back in a few more, we’ll have rotated back.”

“If you wanted to go anyway, I would let you,” Scrooge figured he might as well inform Peter.

That got him to perk up again. “You would?”

“Yes. I can wait somewhere nearby, until you’re finished.”

He offered a penny; Peter about snatched it up. Evidently ‘Jonathan Bradford’ was decent substitute for ‘The Red Barn’ after all.

This, he decided, worked for the best. Peter would be entertained further, and he’d have around an hour to relax and recover.

The boy hurried off, penny clutched in hand. Scrooge found a coffeehouse where he could rent a decent newspaper.

He settled in what he deemed the most comfortable chair the place had, indifferently ignoring askance looks from the other customers in their shabby suits and workman's coveralls.

That he’d let Peter go off unattended didn’t signify to him. If he rode to and from boarding school by himself, he could navigate three blocks of central London in broad daylight.

Peter was exactly five minutes later than expected getting back, so that he started to reconsider. He tapped his pocket-watch; but then familiar grinning face appeared, and his fretfulness instantly vanished.

“Ready to go home?”

“Yeah, sure. Don’t you want to know how the show was?”

“I’m sure they’re all the same.”

“What, you’ve seen it before?”

“Well...no.” He’d never been to a penny-gaff, even once, but they did so love describing them in outraged tones in the newspaper.

The whole ride back Peter was too happy to fill him in on what he’d witnessed, in dramatic and detailed fashion.

“Don’t worry,” Peter finished, as they pulled to the house and he caught his breath, “I won’t tell my parents.” A pause. “Or Ricky.”

“That’s kind of you, Peter.”

“Well I wouldn’t want to risk them not letting me go out with you anymore!”

He came inside to hand the boy off, found his mother waiting in the front hall.

“What good timing. He’ll have an hour or two to settle before dinner.”

“I’m glad it’s soon,” Peter remarked. “I’m starved.”

Scrooge’s face fell, aghast. “Oh _no._ I forgot to ask at any point if you wanted to eat something!”

“That’s all right - I’d have spoken up, if I was hungry. I was having too grand a time to even notice!”

His mother’s expression was bland as Peter bid farewell and ran off upstairs, but Scrooge wrung his hands preemptively.

“Emilia, I am so sorry. I’ve no idea how that slipped my mind. The next time, if there’s a next time, I promise I’ll-”

“It’s fine.” Somehow her lack of upset was more disconcerting. “I’m not surprised. I’d already prepared myself for these things potentially happening.”

He stared at her, vaguely affronted. “Your perception is that I’m that irresponsible?”

She made sound that seemed her version of a light scoff. “Responsibilities involving family, in particular children, are a _practiced_ skill. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Because he’d avoided her family, for so long. Because he’d never had any children.

He took moment to breathe in and unclench his fingers - sharp as she was, he didn’t think she could know how these specific unsaid remarks wounded him.

“If that is so, then I’m certain I will learn in time,” he declared. His voice softened. “It’s very important to me, that I get this right.”

“You already have my husband’s approval, Mr. Scrooge. There’s no need to work so hard.”

“Well…” _But what about yours?_ He swallowed the words back down. “In that case, I assume I am still invited to dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course. Try not to pick up anything too grandiose for Peter,” she went, as she gestured him back to the door. “I know thirteen is considered a big birthday, for boys, but we’re attempting not to spoil him too much for it.”

He’d already decided what he was giving Peter: a promise whatever money he still had saved by the summer, he would double it. His gift would be a minor lesson in personal financial accountability.

But he didn’t bother telling that to Emilia. He knew it wouldn’t impress her. When it came to him, it seemed nothing did.

The afternoon was such a whirlwind of differing emotions he couldn’t get his head clear. He literally forgot to get a carriage - soon as feet found pavement outside, numbly he began walking.

By time he reached his own house it was getting dark. He was physically wearied beyond measure.

He was looking forward to dinner, a fire, some comfortable quiet. Perhaps a lap of purring Erasmus as he sat in his chair. He had already given Jenny her week’s wages, knowing he’d not be home in time. She would’ve left by now; he’d be alone.

He couldn’t make up his mind, he realized - whether he liked being alone, or not. Sometimes the empty space felt like a prison, but other times he’d find people overwhelming and flee to it as refuge.

He’d understood himself, before. After having his soul so thoroughly dissected, he should’ve known himself even better. But it seemed that to become human meant he could be as confused by his own conflicting nature as he was by any other member of the species.

As he reached home a minuscule figure approached from opposite direction.

“There you are, sir! You've been gone a long time, today.”

“I went out,” he informed Marty shortly. “I hope for your sake that you haven’t been hanging about waiting on me all day.”

“Nah. I’ve only been checking every time I passed this way.”

He pushed the gate open with one hand, Marty trailing along as he walked through.

He’d no business for the runner - it seemed the boy only wanted a chat. Tired as he was, Scrooge didn’t care enough not to indulge him for scant amount of time it’d take to get inside.

“Was your day profitable, Marty?”

“Oh, sure. Loads of folk wanting their end of month letters and plans hustled down to the post.”

“Good. I’d wondered; you’re out awfully late.”

A scoff. “I’ve been out much later than this.”

Having reached the door, Scrooge paused to retrieve his key.

Marty went on, “My mother hates it - she keeps telling me to get home before the lamp-lighters come out. But what’s she know? It gets dark early, this time of year. Besides there’s plenty of business from folk who put off ‘til it’s late.”

“Still, you should listen to your mother,” he told Marty mildly. “She only says such things because she cares.”

“If I did everything my mother tells me, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

That got a pause, gloved hand holding key above the lock. He looked back over his shoulder.

“No?”

“She says it doesn’t matter how much money there’s to be made - it isn’t worth it,” Marty stated, blunt. “She thinks you’re so wicked, nothing good can come out of associating with you. She says that you’re a grasping, covetous old sinner; and if I’m not careful I might meet with a bad end.”

No point asking who or what Marty’s mother was, that she’d come by such an opinion. It’d become clear he was infamous among this city’s poor; if he hadn’t been vaguely aware of that already.

“Well,” Scrooge went, discouraged, “there’s no reason to argue through proxy with a woman I’ve never met. And will never meet, clearly - if that’s what she thinks.”

“I’m not bothered about it,” Marty dismissed. “I don’t care about things like that. You pay well and I haven’t had a cross word out of you yet, to boot.”

He didn’t think this the most conciliatory of news - his reputation overlooked in service to a sharp-eyed hunger after coin.

“Goodnight, Marty. Get home safely, whenever you do.” He shook his head as he got the door open. “If the pattern holds, I’m sure I’ll see you again before long.”

“You can bet on it, sir!”

He closed the door behind him, took off his hat – then stood with it still in hand inside his foyer, too distracted by his thoughts to move.

Mathilde and the bazaar, the paintings, sweets and the rain; Peter and the wax-works, gambling, adventures and pennies; their mother and her proud indifference; Marty’s mother and her almost fearful disdain.

He’d known it wouldn’t be _easy_. He hadn’t grasped however it would be so…complicated.

That there’d be days like this, ending full of a mixture of heights and lows, joys and upsets and contentment and stress. Days like this, where he felt neither unhappy nor pleased with what he’d accomplished, what he’d experienced.

“Life it’d appear isn’t so simple, the fuller it becomes,” he mused, lifting up his hat and idly thumbing the brim. “How annoying.”

Ebenezer Scrooge shook his head again with a frown. With nothing else left to do, he went to hang up his hat and coat.


	9. Unbroken Rest

_"What!" exclaimed the Ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!"_

_Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend, or any knowledge of having willfully "bonneted" the Spirit at any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him there._

_"Your welfare!" said the Ghost._

_Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately:_

_"Your reclamation, then. Take heed!" – Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits_

It was the beginning of March, and Ebenezer Scrooge was still working hard at his office.

If a visitor stopped in - although those remained rare - they might not have noticed anything amiss. The furniture was the same, there were still plenty of books and papers.

But one more familiar with the layout of Scrooge and Marley, who knew it before Christmas, would notice changes. Shelves of ledgers had become sparser; if one started opening drawers they’d discover some empty.

The boulder had begun to move.

“Right then.” Belle was strolling as she spoke. “There’s the accounts that had their final review, to be boxed. I’ve finished laying out what you should need for the next three. There’s the fellow coming around two o’clock for the writing desk and the extra chairs. I’ve set aside all the letters for the last post, today - unless anything needs to go sooner?”

“No. However, speaking of letters - I would like you to write out a note for me.”

“What - me?” This made her pause, frowning with surprise. “But-”

“It’s nothing formal,” he reassured her. “Only to accompany the cheque I had drawn up yesterday.”

Plucking it from his desk, he handed it to her. He thought through, as he spoke aloud.

“Just a few sentences stating the funds are a donation from a benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous, and they are to be distributed among the survivors and still-living relatives of those impacted by the Trechloddfa Pit collapse.”

Belle was giving a sideways look. Clearly realizing a few things at once from context.

He pretended not to notice. “The cheque should be sent to an address in Wales, which I’ve left for you on the back. It can go out with the rest of the mail at day’s end.”

“No guaranteed delivery on this one?” she asked, shrewdly.

He paused, turning to look at her. Not sure what response to give; not sure there was any point.

“Because that could perhaps be traced. Right.” A thin smile. “Is your handwriting _that_ distinctive?”

He went quietly, “I’d rather not take any chance.”

She nodded. “Wales - coal-mining country.” Examined the cheque idly. “So, was it an accident then? The collapse?”

“Legally it was,” he said with the sarcasm deserved. “Subsequent investigation found no wrongdoing; concluded that the mine’s tunnel caved in due to ‘unforeseeable oversight’.”

He frowned sourly, aside.

“ _‘Unforeseeable oversight’_ such as remorseless cost-cutting on measures used to support the shafts.”

He hunched slightly, wearied. Not quite looking as he waited to see if she had more questions.

It seemed however he’d confirmed what, going by her expression, she’d already guessed.

Perhaps she’d needed to hear he was _willing_ to confirm it - he supposed that was fair.

“I will do my very best to see the note is written without any blotches,” she said flatly.

“Thank you.” He gave a nod - his thanks as much for this relative ease, as anything else.

She nodded back, understanding him.

Were his misdeeds more forgettable now because she’d witnessed his remorse - or simply because she knew him; a person more difficult to hate than an idea, a name?

Or perhaps she merely tired hearing the details of such stories; awful variant on awful theme.

“I suppose the thought that comes to mind...once you get past all the others,” she huffed, as she turned toward the corridor; “Isn’t there _some_ point where cost of the workforce begins to damage profit?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that question,” he promised as he went to his desk.

It was a calculation far too many businessmen had made. A calculation many were still making, he was sure. He’d merely been swifter, more efficient, than most.

Two raps at the door.

“Oh, speaking of letters!” Belle went in more her usual ebullience. “Let’s see what we’ve gotten.”

Retrieving the post from the stoop, she sorted through as she walked back again.

“This one’s from Birmingham, sizable heft - probably copy of that contract you’ve been waiting on. One I believe is from your solicitor. This one, funny-looking address, loads of postage - from one of the workshops abroad, no doubt. And oh, another note from Old Miss Thwaites, isn’t that nice! Clockwork correspondent, she is - shall I put that on top for you to read first?”

“No, no. Set it aside,” he corrected, not glancing from his ledger. “I always save those for after the day, so I can read them at home in the evening.” He did pause, over a thought. “Eventually I should give her my home address instead. When it becomes the more reliable place to reach me.”

Knowing he was thinking aloud Belle didn’t respond. But she did stop sorting, puzzled by a different envelope. “What’s this one? Never seen anything quite like this before…”

He looked. Was able to identify it at once.

“That will be a lawsuit. That stiff envelope is favored for official notices by the courts. The first of many, no doubt.” He glanced around, before shrugging and returning to his writing. “We shall have to set aside a tray for them, or something.”

Belle stared at him for an extended silence. Trying to see if he was joking.

He wasn’t.

“Mr. Ebenezer,” she stammered, bemused. At the sound in her voice he lifted eyes from the page again.

Her gaze was overtly questioning, mouth parted slightly with what she wanted to say but couldn’t voice.

By comparison however the events were so little a shock to him, he could only shrug once again.

“As I’m certain you know I’m far from the only businessman in town. Not the only one willing to partake either in dealings of a certain nature. I have investors, those I’ve contracted with on specific ventures, there are some with whom we were forced to share stakes in outside ownerships-”

He cut off, summing to the point:

“In the course of my dealings, I have happened to make some men a lot of money. They are disappointed I’ll not be helping them make any more of it.”

“And...this, is how they express their disappointment?” She held the envelope up.

“Oh, some settled for acrimonious letters and telegrams, employing varying degrees of creativity.” He tapped his pen. “There was a paragraph of insult from someone in Leeds, I’m trying to recall...it was rather good; I’d half a mind to keep it, put it in a frame…”

“Thrilled as I always am to see you in good humor, should you be taking this so lightly?” She dropped the envelope on his desk like she preferred to not be touching it. “Most people would consider _a_ lawsuit...well, bad. And you say you’re expecting _more_ of them?”

“I know these men. They are to a one proud, craven, motivated by greed. They don’t understand why I’ve done what I have, and they’re angry for how it effects them.” He leaned to dip in his inkwell. “This is mainly to spite me with inconvenience.”

“So - you don’t expect any of them to make any headway?”

“Not particularly.”

He tried to keep writing; was too aware how she stood over him still, dubious. He lifted his head, frowning - knowing she was motivated by concern, restraining his frustration.

He endeavored to explain, keeping calm though his voice began carrying impatience. “Lawsuits are time-consuming and expensive. Many concerning business matters never make it to court - they are dropped or settled. Those that do make it are often dismissed mid-case for some finicky legal matter. And, finally, those seen to conclusion of course aren’t always found in favor of the plaintiff.”

“Those things may all be true, but ignoring the suit itself isn’t going to make them happen.”

“Yet ignoring them is precisely what I intend,” he coolly declared. “I’ll not give them the satisfaction of losing a wink of sleep over this. In addition to my personal solicitor, the business does employ its own lawyers - good ones, I should say, given their fees; certainly experienced. I’ll hand this off to them-” he took up the lawsuit, setting it on empty spot to begin the pile “-and otherwise not think about it, save when they ask for my input.”

He saw her biting her lip - unable to buy so easily into his confidence.

He stressed, factually, “I’m not worried.”

“I can see that.” She folded her arms. “So you really don’t think you’ll be hurt any by them?”

“If I were to make truly thorough estimation, I would say there will be a dozen total - certainly, no more than twenty. Of those I think it will be found most have only murky, at best, ground to stand on - Scrooge and Marley was always very _careful_ about our contracts; I myself was careful in the severances not to violate any clauses. Perhaps half will even make it to court, but it _is_ a waiting game. I have insurances to help cover fees, and nothing to lose having my name bandied about. Such things won’t be true for the opposite parties.”

He looked upward, half-squinting, as he considered.

“I think at best one, maybe two, could stand to be successful. Or, far likelier, paid off with some arrangement - probably all they really want.”

“And if you’re wrong? If more are successful, and you take a real hit?”

Because she read the newspapers, he knew what she was thinking. Stories about one harsh lawsuit utterly ruining somebody. It _could_ happen.

He half-smiled, wryly. “Concerned about the fate of your employment?”

“No,” she retorted, “I’m worried about you!”

Despite the relationship they’d fostered, this still took him something by surprise. Only moments ago the conversation had been about his involvement with a mine collapse, after all.

But he’d forgotten that relationships, true connections, were greater than moment to moment.

“If something happens, _I’ll_ get by. I always do,” she continued. “You, on the other hand…”

She stared at him, head shaking; softly incredulous.

“I don’t understand. You’re acting as if you don’t care. It is _your_ fate, you realize. And...there’ll be a lot less anonymous cheques and charity funding to go around, by the way.”

“Yes, that I _do_ wish to prevent. And I will not simply surrender - because they don’t deserve the money any more than I do.” He indicated the notice, dismissive. “What you should understand, however, was that profit itself was the true goal, I think.”

He frowned, looking askance.

“The ever-increasing number. I cared less for the actual wealth. And, even less so now.”

He took up pen, returned to his ledger; determined to force subject to drop.

“And don’t say I don’t know what it’s like, not having money. It’s been some years, to be sure; but the blood in my veins hardly runs blue.”

“Have you ever lived on the street?” she asked - not challenging but still pointed.

“No,” he admitted, quietly. Brought to old unwanted recollections. “It was bad at times, but never that.”

It would be strange, he realized - if worst did come and he lost everything. It’d been that long, since he’d really worried about getting by. He couldn’t picture who he’d be in such circumstances. It didn’t frighten him; it bemused him.

To think so perhaps made mockery of the reality of many. Still, it remained how he felt: it would be strange.

“Miss Belle,” he tried to reassure her, “you underestimate both the limits to litigation and my own resources, if you’re so convinced it’s easy to break me. I _will_ be fine. Please: put this out of your mind altogether.”

“Easier said than done. But, all right. It is _your_ business. And I can see you’re not to be moved.”

She looked to the clock, exhaling.

“And luckily, it’s only twenty minutes until teatime. I could use with a break.”

He was already thoroughly caught in his ledgers. “I’ll be finished with this in twenty-five.”

He didn’t have to glance up fully to catch the reproving look she was giving him. He chuckled dryly. “Considering it is I that should by rights be taskmaster here, I think we can spare five minutes’ worth of compromise.”

“Well if so, we should go outside, then.” He glanced at the windows; she insisted, “It’s a nice day! It might still be cold, but it is so very bright.”

“Yes, all right.”

In near twenty-five minutes exactly, both bundled up and walked the few blocks to the nearest tearoom. It was a dingy place, little more than a corner - and the woman who ran it never spoke to Belle nor looked at her directly. But the cups and saucers were always clean, and they did serve delicious pastries.

Belle suggested the ‘scenic route’ back, meaning a loop around the block rather than going straight. He acquiesced easily.

Passing a newsstand they got a pair of oranges. Scrooge pocketed his, removing a glove to peel hers.

“So,” he remarked offhand, as his pace slowed; she trailed alongside him, “how are you enjoying your journey alongside Master Crusoe?”

It took her a beat, but she brightened - for the better part of a week she’d been reading the book. “Oh! I’m enjoying it rather well, thank you. It’s quite striking. Very descriptive. I liked the part with the parrot the best.”

“Yes, I remember liking that too, when I read it as a boy.”

“You haven’t visited it again since?”

“No. Honestly, I don’t even remember when or how I got my hands on that copy you’re borrowing - the books I had as a child were lost.”

“Well that’s a shame. Books are old friends, when you can hang onto them. Every folded page and bend in the spine holds a memory.”

He smiled, liking that sentiment. “Indeed.”

Handing her the orange, she passed him at same time a cheap cloth handkerchief to clean his hands.

“It is curious,” she noted. “For a man who doesn’t like to travel, so many of your old favorites are adventures in far-off lands.”

“Well that was a long time ago, when I chose to read them,” he reminded her, dryly. “Also, I feel it warrants mention Crusoe was after all _shipwrecked_ \- that’s not precisely encouragement.”

“Still, though. The great draw to both those books is they’re set in such exotic places.”

“There are many things, I imagine, which sound far better in a book than they’d be in reality. Adventures on the page are full of excitement - if ever I had such adventures in real life, I’m sure they’d be terrifying.”

He thought with irony of the ‘adventure’ he’d in fact had - he certainly hadn’t enjoyed it.

After a last pass under his nails, he shook the handkerchief out, folding it before returning it to her.

“Books, as you say, can be wonderfully descriptive. And it’s those descriptions I enjoy. I’m content to preserve them as things that are safe, positive...and easy to process. No wandering abroad or grand misadventures for me - I leave those to the heroes of their books, such as the likes of Robinson Crusoe and Ali Baba.”

Belle gave a thoughtful smile. “You know, Ali Baba is _a_ hero, to be certain. But he’s not the hero of that book.”

He looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Why remember, the thousand and one tales of _The Arabian Nights_ \- who’s telling those stories? Scheherazade.”

She paused to ensure this point sank in.

“The book, it begins and ends with her; fighting for her life, doing something courageous and noble. Ali Baba and the rest are all fine stories, to be sure - but even within their own book, they’re still just stories. _She's_ the story-teller.”

“A story-teller,” he repeated, faintly smirking. “Small wonder she is _your_ favorite.”

“Perhaps I see a little of myself in her,” she conceded laughingly. “Still, my point stands. Scheherazade is who it’s all about, ultimately. She faces a challenge, she gets the happy ending. She’s the true hero of _The_ _Arabian Nights_.”

Scrooge made a thoughtful sound. “Interesting.”

“What?” she prompted, teasing. “That’s all you have to say?”

Seeing her expression he raised his eyebrows, amused. “I don’t concede to your interpretation entirely. But it is persuasive and well-reasoned enough that I won’t argue against it.”

“I know you enough by now to know what a compliment _that_ is,” she said merrily, pleased with herself. “For you to accept something without debating!”

“Yes, yes,” he good-naturedly muttered.

The street had grown crowded on their way back. Tiny thing she was, Belle had near-miss with being bowled over. She slid an arm around his without thinking, leaning into him for support.

He stiffened, startled, but knew it was for practicality. By time they returned to the office they’d separated again without remark.

The rest of the day went by. Soon enough the clock struck four and the fires were smothered, the ink and pens put away, the last of the lamps blown out.

“Have a good night, Mr. Ebenezer,” Belle called farewell. “Pleasant dreams!”

“I hope so,” he murmured, too quiet to be heard.

The first of the spirits told him if he were willing to revisit old memories, he might never have to do so again while he slept. Hard to agree with anything _that_ particular Spirit had put him through – still, he begrudgingly conceded, for the most part it’d been correct.

He did sometimes relive those worst Christmases – but before he’d struggled against them, suffered the more for it. Re-experiencing it had deprived the dreams of their teeth. The unpleasantness was less visceral, fleeting.

Old wounds reopened, to be sure: perhaps they’d heal and close properly this time, into not so ugly a scar.

But he’d been shown horrors besides ones he was already aware of. Horrors in which he’d been not victim but perpetrator. And because he deserved guilt from them, they proved harder to shake.

He’d known the bliss of restful nights at first. As time passed, more shades began working way into his dreaming hours; looming over him, clawing.

He did not want to again hate falling asleep, and he tried not to let anxiety grip him each evening. He tried not to worry, to climb into bed on time, close his eyes. But the nightmares continued increasing, both in frequency and frights.

One night it began as a familiar terror – reliving Christmas at school, the first year.

It was a dark feverish memory, driven by sense other than visual. He could feel his nails biting inside his youthful fists, the sheets rubbing against his back as he squirmed. The sound of his own weak, wordless pleading in his ears. A grasp on his hip to hold him down, so hard it bruised for weeks.

Then came the part where his eyes against his will flew open, to see his headmaster’s leering face above him. But this time –

He saw his own face. How he’d looked at Mary Cratchit with chilling indifference, robbing her of any sense of dignity or value.

Scrooge awoke violently, clutching hand over his mouth as he choked on bile.

He didn’t dare lay down again. He passed that night huddled in one corner of his bed, whole body shaking.

He became increasingly less interested in trying to sleep.

Habits resurfaced with ease. He’d keep awake until the wee hours, pacing the floors. The aches and tensions of constant exhaustion crept back into his muscles and bones; Scrooge greeted them bitterly as old companions. Soon, he was sure, he’d forget to notice them again.

It was a Friday, and he’d taken a teatime meeting with Thwaites and Hooper, then returned home early rather than going back to work. He was sitting beside the fire in his study, legs crossed, face against one hand as he gazed without really seeing into the flames.

The maid walked past, carrying laundry. She lingered enough, watching him, that he noticed.

“Is there something you require, Miss Jenny?” Dropping hand he lifted his head.

She struggled not to flinch. She still didn’t always know how to react to being directly addressed.

“No, sir. It’s just…” She hesitated but seemed compelled to go on. “I’m sorry, sir. I know it’s none of my business. I was just thinking…”

“Just thinking?” he repeated, frowning, when she stalled into silence.

She shut eyes to screw up courage, continuing almost as a blurt, “Did you go somewhere last night, sir? I shouldn’t even ask, but I couldn’t keep from wondering. Only as to it’s being so unlike you, and all.”

“No.” His eyes narrowed, puzzled. “Why ever do you ask?”

She ducked her head. “Y-your bed, sir. When I went to make it up, it – it doesn’t look as if it’s been slept in.”

“Ah.” He shifted, understanding. “I fell asleep in my armchair by the fire, last night. That is all.”

It made for a restless night, but never sinking too deep prevented most dreams from forming.

Gaze still on the floor, concern tugged her lips. “It…didn’t look as though it’d been slept in the night before, either,” she added softly.

He held back a sigh. If anyone would know a person’s habits, it’d be their servants. No doubt she’d noticed the pattern; had better guess about his insomnia than she was willing to come out and say.

This would count as exceedingly nosy of her, in most regards. But he could see how he’d inadvertently encouraged such familiarity.

“I have some difficulties falling asleep, from time to time,” he admitted stiffly. “An old problem – I’m used to it.”

“That…doesn’t seem entirely healthy, sir. Have…have you considered perhaps seeing a doctor?”

This time when he frowned, it was more severe. A boundary had to be drawn.

“Be about your work, Miss Jenny.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. She nodded. “Aye, sir. I…I’m sorry, sir.”

She vanished quicker than the mice Erasmus occasionally found to chase.

That should’ve been the end to it. Only, as days went by, he couldn’t stop seeing the way she’d glance at him. How her eyes kept darting towards his own; the shadows and hollows rebuilding there.

Unanticipated concern, he discovered, could feel like a burden. It could even start moving one into guilt.

Another night came with little intent to sleep. As he walked from one room to another, he wound up in his bedchamber.

Looking at the undisturbed bedding, he frowned – went over and started tugging so it’d be artificially wrinkled.

Abruptly he stopped, realizing what he was doing.

Erasmus sat not far off, tail twitching. Watching with that expression of cats that in right lighting looked judgmental.

“This is ridiculous,” Scrooge grumbled aloud. It was absurd he was letting a maid’s opinion compel him into trickery.

He rubbed his temple, feeling yet more exhausted. “But what is more absurd,” he admitted, “is resorting to deception first, rather than even wanting to attempt to sleep.”

How he _missed_ sleep. He never felt more old, more trapped in a wasted husk of a body, than when the sun rose each morning to find him feeling anything but refreshed.

With aggravated noise of surrender he yanked the comforter back, climbed in.

On his back he fidgeted, trying to get comfortable – trying, it felt like, to remember how this even worked.

He stretched out, arm slipping under his pillow.

Then he started when his hand found something there.

Sitting up he pulled it out, unfolding palm to look at the unexpected object. A medallion; small, ovaloid, embossed with what could only be the faded image of a Catholic saint.

He scoffed quietly, astonished.

The next morning when his maid arrived he was in his study, waiting. When he heard the door open, he called to her, “Miss Jenny?”

She came immediately, not stopping to remove her cloak. “Good morning, sir. Is there something that you need?”

Scrooge was seated at an angle so she’d see his face in profile. He didn’t look at her but the wall opposite as he spoke.

“You might recall, when I hired you, I made mention of how I can be rather particular when it comes to details. That I notice things out of order. Such as, for example, an item where it does not belong.”

“Aye, sir?” Confusion made question out of her response.

He pulled the medallion from his vest pocket, holding it up and out toward her between fingertips.

His gaze slid her direction - catching as she gave characteristic pained expression of one who’d just realized they’d done something they never should’ve anticipated getting away with.

“What is this?” he asked crisply.

“It’s Saint Anne, sir.” Her voice so quiet it couldn’t manage to tremble. “She’s…mother to the Virgin Mary. Normally she’s supposed to be the protector of children, but…well, my Mum always put her under our pillows when we had bad dreams, and I supposed that…I thought it might help.”

He’d guessed as much already, but hearing it still drew faint noise of disbelief. He stared at her, eyes narrowing, mouth slightly parted. To say this crossed a line was deeply understating it.

“I-I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to…I only wanted…”

Voice fading, she gave up trying to speak. Her face drained of color, even her freckles vanished. Her hands were clasped before her, tightly; she stared into the middle distance with unhappy resignation.

She knew it’d been out of bounds: that was clear. She was otherwise so well-behaved, so perfectly respectful, so why in the world…?

 _She wanted to help_ , he realized. _Even knowing what it might cost her, she was moved as if she had no choice._

He’d years to take sleeplessness for granted. He didn’t have much perspective, any longer.

How _bad_ must it look, that someone who’d known him for three months was worried to point of near-desperation?

He shut his eyes, exhaling steadily as he tried to recompose. “You’ve had some time to familiarize yourself with about every object in this house, Miss Jenny. You might have noticed, there is no copy of the Bible to be found. Though you aren’t here on Sundays, you have perhaps realized that I never attend church, never make any mention of prayers, nor indeed any mention of God to speak of.”

She didn’t dare respond – she stared with fearful uncertainty.

“It isn’t the unpopularity of your particular sect of religion, that is at issue: it’s there being any religion at all.” He turned to look at her with wide-eyed severity. “I consider myself a man of scientific reason, not faith. A view which is also somewhat…unpopular.”

He shook his head.

“Keep religion in your own way, and I shall keep it in mine. Even if in my case that means _not_ keeping it.”

He paused, then pressed the medallion to surface of his desk, sliding it back across to her.

“I do not care what sort of beads or medals you prefer to keep in your pockets. So long as I do not see them. Not while you work in this house. Is that clear?”

“A-aye, sir.” She took her medallion back, hand shaking. “I didn’t mean to offend, sir. Again, I…I’m sorry.”

A tight nod was his silent acceptance of her apology.

“I’ll be about my work, then, sir,” she concluded meekly. With no further response from him, she left the room.

Soon as he was alone again, Scrooge deflated, leaning head back as his shoulders slumped.

Loathe as he was to accept it - something needed to be done.

The next morning found him standing before the counter at a druggist’s, feeling twitchy he was even there.

“It’s hopefully something besides pure laudanum,” he muttered. “I’m trying to _avoid_ hallucinations.”

“No, this mixture’s more a soporific than an opiate.”

Finished blending the concoction, the druggist set the small flat vial in front of him.

“Three drops in a full glass of water, directly at bedtime. And I wouldn’t make any plans first thing in the morning – you’ll likely be groggy the hours after you wake.”

Throat working, he picked up the vial, looking at it. Feeling vaguely glad his winter gloves meant he didn’t have to touch it directly.

“Will it affect my appetite?”

“No, sir. My patients who take this one report no real major side-effects.” A pause. “Although, how’s the fire brigade in your area?”

His gaze darted to the druggist’s face. “What does that signify?”

“Well, that’ll put you into a real deep slumber, all right. You’ll sleep through anything – including a blaze started by a knocked-over candle, or a stray ember. And, if you live alone…”

He didn’t need to finish. His point was made.

Scrooge swallowed, dryly. He gazed at the vial another moment then set it back down.

He pulled out his wallet, tonelessly asking, “How much?”

That night he dressed for bed. He sat and he measured out three drops precisely of the tonic.

The water became a faded green color. He sneered in instinctive distaste.

Instead of reaching for the glass he stared into it silently a little while. The clocks began striking ten.

Looking before him, he found Erasmus sitting a short distance away. The cat tilted head, making concerned noises.

“This feels like cheating,” Scrooge admitted. Not caring how that might sound.

He sniffed. Picked up the glass delicately.

“If bad dreams are about my own actions, a consequence of my unclear conscience – shouldn’t I deserve them?”

He swirled water around, watching the strange color shift. “Nevermind how abhorrent I am to give way to pharmaceuticals, under any circumstance; if I drug my nightmares away, am I ignoring a cost that needs to be paid? Is that an unfair escape?”

He lifted glass higher, peering through it. As if a different angle would change anything.

After another moment he lowered it, and sighed.

“But, if the whole point of redemption was to make me a better man, to put me into position to help others - I can’t accomplish anything if I’m too weary to think.”

He shut his eyes. He could feel his blood pounding against his temples, he realized. He was becoming drained enough it always vaguely hurt.

“So, even if it is an avoidance - it’s a necessity, in order to keep myself useful.”

If he wasn’t entirely pleased with that conclusion, it was good enough to bring him around to resignation. He went to drink – paused, looking to the extinguished candle at his bedside.

He licked his fingers, gave the wick a thorough rub, to be certain.

Then he knocked back the glass, grimacing against the aftertaste. He pulled curtains shut after him as he laid down.

He closed his eyes, had enough time to wonder if it’d truly kick in as potently as claimed – before a deep funnel of darkness grabbed him and sucked him under.

It was a good sleep, to a point. So heavy he wasn’t even aware he was having it. No dreams to speak of.

He was woken by Erasmus yowling loud and shrill, clawing at the bed-curtains.

Scrooge was in a heavy fog - when he tried to get out of bed he staggered, grabbing the nearby end table for support.

The cat was bumping into his legs; making irate sounds, fussing. Any observant owner of an animal knew what ‘hungry’ sounded like - Scrooge frowned.

“What time is…” As if in response to his question heavy bells from outside began to toll. He listened for the hour.

To his great astonishment the tolling went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and up to ten.

“It isn’t possible,” he protested. “I’ve slept for twelve hours straight?”

He knew he was behind on his rest, but _still._ When eight was luxury, this seemed horrifying.

“That church clock could be wrong - an icicle might’ve gotten into its works…”

Mumbling to himself, he made way to the nearest timepiece inside his rooms. But it only confirmed it: he’d passed out for twelve hours straight, slept on insensibly through most of the morning.

Erasmus fussed again at the top of his lungs.

“Yes, yes, I hear you.”

Scrooge pressed hands over his face. Even with the cold-water shock of finding how late he’d slept, he still hadn’t awoken entirely. This cloying drowsiness made him queasy.

“Thank goodness that it’s Sunday!”

He’d had a presence of mind that he should catch up on his rest before the one morning where timeliness didn’t matter, and he was certainly glad he did.

Hopefully now that was over with, the next night would be _reasonable_.

By time he fed Erasmus, got washed and dressed, the cobwebs were mostly gone. He was far from thrilled however - he wasn’t certain what could be worse: for it to feel like that every time, or the possibility he’d get used to it.

He didn’t take well to bad first impressions; such an experience was enough to make him strongly desire to throw the tonic into the bin. But - he knew he’d still have difficulty falling asleep without it, and the dreams might come back.

Besides which, he had paid for it, and it wasn’t cheap. Even now, he remained tetchy about spending money only to let it waste.

So that night he counted out three drops again, even as he felt displeasure all the while.

 _Necessity,_ he reminded himself. _This is a necessity._

He got into bed - earlier, this time, so that he’d wake when he was supposed to. He laid head on pillow, he shut his eyes…

“Mr. Scrooge? M-Mr. Scrooge-”

The voice sounded like it came from far away at first - as it repeated his name, he dragged himself to consciousness.

It was morning. Jenny was standing at the side of his bed with nervous dread upon her face. It was she that had been tentatively saying his name over and over, trying to rouse him.

As he sat up and groaned faintly, she stepped back in reflex, pressing hand over her chest. There was a terror about her that couldn’t at first be accounted.

“ _Sir!_ I...I’m so sorry sir, but when I realized you were still abed I…” She quavered, hesitating. “I wasn’t sure if...if I should wake you…”

The fact that she was here was not a good sign - obviously he’d overshot again.

“What time is it?” he demanded.

When she wasn’t able to speak an answer he leapt out of bed, rummaging for his pocket-watch.

 _“Twenty past s-six?”_ he gasped. Even with the stupor of the night previous, he’d still overslept by more than two hours. “Oh….oh no. Oh _no_.”

“Sir,” his maid managed to squeak, “are you all right….?”

“Obviously I am anything but!”

She quailed. He at once regretted that.

“I’m sorry, Miss Jenny. That wasn’t deserved,” he mumbled, distracted. “Oh, but I can’t believe this is happening...oh, _Miss Belle._ Please, find someone to run to my office and tell her I’m going to be late - hurry!”

She darted off at once. Scrooge sat down in his armchair by the hearth and put head in his hands. Trying to will the fogginess to leave him.

“I sent off your message, sir.” Jenny was short of breath as she returned. “There was a...a little fair-haired boy, out by the gate…”

“Yes, yes.” He waved hand, impatient. “That will do.” He sighed and then gulped. “This is...most irregular, I know, Miss Jenny, but if you would assist me by gathering up the morning basin and the like, so that I might get ready quickly-”

“Oh! Aye, sir, of course.”

He noticed her rubbing one hand in that nervous habit of hers. He remembered how fearful she’d looked while trying to wake him.

“You were checking,” he realized aloud. “When you came to my bedside, you were checking to see if I-”

He didn’t finish, because her face was so very stricken still.

It had possibly occurred to her before now, but it hadn’t to him. If he died during the night: she’d be the one to find him.

He was tempted to raise her salary, solely for this realization.

He looked at her, not knowing what to say, as her eyes dropped to the floor.

“When I was in training they did warn me,” she murmured. “We took in people who were - sick, and older, with nowhere else to go. They said it happens all the time. You come in the morning, and...find someone. That I should prepare for it.”

“But it never did happen, to you,” he gathered.

She shook her head, lips pressed until they turned colorless. “Not while I was there, sir, no.”

“And then you came to work for an old bachelor, who doesn’t take very good care of himself,” he had to say, with dry humor. “So, if you were hoping to avoid that eventuality, perhaps not the best choice.”

She didn’t find that funny - in fact she seemed on verge of quiet hysterical tears when she looked at him again.

“ _Are_ you well, sir? Please. I know you were unhappy with me the last time, for asking, but...but I-I would like to know.”

“I’m fine,” he told her wearily. “But I decided to try a sleeping aid, to cope with my restlessness. It’s far more powerful than I’d prepared for.”

He hoped it relief to her, to know he wasn’t about to spring a most unpleasant surprise on her anytime soon. At least, it wasn’t likely he would.

He made it to work by quarter past seven. Belle inquired if everything was all right. By the terseness of his response she seemed to realize he was embarrassed and irritated – she let the matter drop.

After work he went straight back to the druggist’s.

“I overslept by _two hours._ After sleeping for twelve, the night before! That never happens, not to me!”

“Look, sir, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s what you asked for. A deep and unbroken night’s rest.”

“Are you saying that that’s going to be every single time?”

“It might. No matter what I do to the dosage, I can’t control precisely how it’ll affect you – if you need up by a certain hour, pay your neighborhood knocker-upper to be more thorough.”

Scrooge clenched his teeth, as he glowered at the vial he’d brought back.

He never bothered about the knocker-upper – the man that went door to door, rapping on windows with a special pole. His own regimen was so clockwork, always waking at the same hour entirely on his own, he’d scoffed at what he considered unnecessary expense.

Doing that – it felt like admitting the strength of his own body, his will, had been defeated.

He tapped finger on the counter. “Is there nothing else to be done?”

“Well I could switch to a different mixture.” The druggist regarded him with thinly veiled impatience. “But anything else _will_ have side-effects. Honestly, I think you got lucky, if having a bit of trouble waking is all this one does to you.”

There was a beat; he added, with something like flippancy, “Or you could try warm milk.”

Scrooge frowned at him in displeasure.

He thought hard but came to no useful conclusion, so in frustration he snatched up the vial and left.

That night he tried going to bed without the tonic. He barely slept at all.

When he did, shadows churned in his slumber, half-formed dreams. Horses screaming and the air thick with stench of smoke; men on the ground bloodied, moaning, as a factory girl covered in soot stared with wild eyes into nothingness.

He skipped shaving that morning. He didn’t trust the steadiness in his hands.

When the maid arrived soon after he went to speak with her.

“If it is all right with you, I believe we will make slight alteration to your morning chores.” Though he was composed, internally he braced with resignation. “When you arrive, you will likely have to wake me.”

A pause.

“And, I suppose you might as well give Erasmus his breakfast – you can attend to him, first.”

“Aye, sir.” Jenny nodded, accepting this without much hesitation. “Is there anything you’d like me to prepare for you, also?”

He wanted to say no, but he thought about it. “A pot of strong tea, perhaps.”

And thus his routine became further altered. Every morning at around quarter to five, his maid would come to his bedside, pull back the curtains and gently rouse him.

She’d have a tray with her, bearing a teapot and a cup she’d already warmed. Within time, the tray gained the addition of slices of toast – through trial and error he discovered the lingering grogginess from his tonic wore off faster with something in his stomach.

He didn’t like this. Any of it.

He hated being waited on, having simple things done for him as if he couldn’t manage it. It made him feel like an invalid.

But what Ebenezer Scrooge was slowly learning to accept, sometimes in order to help other people, he first had to take care of himself.


	10. If That Spirit Goes Not Forth

_Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face._

_"Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?"_

_"Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in me or not?"_

_"I do," said Scrooge. "I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?"_

_"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world—oh, woe is me!—and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" – Stave One: Marley’s Ghost_

The rag and bone man came every about third day down the street, like always.

If Ebenezer Scrooge resisted counting the patter of horse’s hooves and turn of wheels from his cart, he still usually noticed when the yell began to echo. No matter how deep he’d sunk into his ledgers.

There’d never been a response, any acknowledgment whatsoever, from the Lord Mayor’s office regarding that complaint he’d sent. Enough time passed clearly one was never coming. If it’d even been read through at all, it must’ve been summarily dismissed.

He couldn’t even manage to be a little upset those days of tallying had been wasted. Indeed he was relieved. It would’ve been terrible if literally the last act he’d completed as his old self managed to come back to embarrass him in the present.

Belle was trading a small bundle of fabric scraps from the door. Business completed, the rag and bone man tipped his hat to her.

“Good day to you, Miss.”

“You as well.”

She walked to the back and held out the money received for Scrooge to see, so he could take note, before going to place it in the office coffer.

He glanced, then spoke to her as he continued writing.

“You know, I might be out of the loop - but it seems you do a bit better than the going rate.”

“Perhaps he likes my smile,” she quipped.

He smirked. “You’re a shrewder negotiator than you’d give yourself credit for.”

“Well, between blunt force or a bit of charm - I’m certainly not built for the first.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could probably hold your own if you had to. Strength of spirit can sometimes go about as far as physical presence.”

“If you say so; I wouldn’t know.” Hand on her hip, she gazed out the window. Sighed, “I can’t wait until it’s spring.”

“It is, according to the calendar,” he reminded her.

“You know what I mean, Mr. Ebenezer. _Properly_ spring. Oh, I just want it to get warm! It fooled me - every day it seemed it kept getting more light out, and I began to get excited-”

“And then it started to rain,” he finished.

“Yes.”

“And it remained cold.”

“Exactly! You understand.”

“It does this every year,” he pointed out, amused despite himself.

“Yes, I know,” she answered without hesitation. “And every year, it fools me.”

He shook his head. “Weren’t you born in London, if I recall correctly?”

“I was. Which is precisely why I talk so much about the weather.”

“Oh, well - you have a point there,” he conceded. He glanced at the clock, then back to his page. “I should be finished with this one before long, if we wanted to take our tea-break a bit early.”

She gave a look of pleasant surprise. “I’ll start getting the things ready.”

Teatime meant clearing off most of his desk, Scrooge moving his chair so his back was to the window, her seated across from him at the other side.

If Belle thought it absurd to go through this arrangement in favor of ignoring the perfectly good unused desk opposite his, she never once complained.

He started divvying up the newspaper as Belle poured his cup, then began doctoring her own.

“Would you be willing to accompany me somewhere, two Sundays from now?” he asked, while it was on his mind. “I’d pay you for it - technically, you’d be coming as my assistant.”

“Sure.” She didn’t have to think hard. “Where would we be going to?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he sighed. “Peter is coming home for a visit, that week-”

“What, again?” She blinked, frowning; settling back with her cup. “They sure do let him take a lot of breaks from that school of his.”

He made a tepidly neutral sound. “Some sort of _experimental program_ , I think. Radical new ideas on education.” Turned a page in the paper. “Honestly, I don’t know how much he actually learns there - his letters are full of nothing but stories of mischief and trouble he gets up to with his friends. Still...I’d rather he be enjoying himself, than the alternative.”

He lifted his cup.

“In any case, I agreed to take him and the other children on an outing that day, and I’d certainly appreciate your help.”

“I thought you said you’d never do all four at once again, if you could avoid it.”

“Fred tricked me,” he said, dour.

“ _Ah_ ,” was her only - knowing - reply. “Well I’m more than happy to come along. They’re a lovely bunch.”

“I have no idea what I’m going to do with them, so if you’ve any thoughts…”

“Oh, you’ve got two weeks, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

He shot her look to indicate he didn’t hold the same confidence as she did, though he didn’t bother saying as much aloud.

After a few sips Belle set her tea down, having found the section with sketches of newer ladies’ fashions. “Ooh,” she gushed, eyeing one in particular. Folding the page, she held it up so he could see. “What do you think?”

He examined it, after a beat feigning utmost sincerity, “I don’t think I could pull it off.”

Belle burst out in startled laughter. “Oh my Lord,” she gasped. “There’s an image that’s going to stick with me!”

“Yes, enjoy that.” He half-smiled as he went back to reading.

She took some time to recover, sipping more tea and wiping her eyes.

“But in all seriousness, though…?”

“Oh, don’t ask me about fashion, Miss Belle. I don’t know the slightest thing about it.” He gave her an expression of minor frustration. “I’m not even sure how many dresses _you_ own, and I see you almost every day.”

She was disappointed by his lack of input, but shrugged it off. “It’s three. For the record.”

He blinked after a second. “No - that can’t be right,” he objected. “That’s how many I think you must’ve already had, before you started working for me, and-”

“Well I had to sell those, to trade in for the ones I’ve got now,” she explained patiently. “Lost out on the exchange by quite a bit - more respectable dresses cost more, of course.”

He made a noncommittal sound, eyeing what she was wearing. Now he bothered to think about it, he supposed he must’ve seen two dresses - a sort of grey-blue, and the dull dark purple she had on. The third dress must’ve been for shopping and days out.

She smoothed her skirt. “Truth be told, I do miss wearing brighter colors, actually.”

“Then wear them, if you want. You know it makes no difference to me.”

He drank his tea as she shook her head at him, seeming to think he was missing some point.

“It’s harder to find bright colors that still look good by the time they get to secondhand, anyway,” she said offhand.

She reached for the plate of tartlets. He watched her hand, without thinking - realized she was about to go for the only raspberry.

“Oh,” he went, also reaching, “actually, if you don’t mind-”

Belle snatched the plate up, holding it out of reach playfully. “What’s the magic word?”

He frowned at her. “ _Employment,”_ he stressed.

She merely smirked and tilted her head, not so easily threatened.

“Please,” he relented. Smiling she moved it back, and he took the one he wanted.

They’d finished most of the food, were on their second cups of tea, when Belle glanced from whatever article she was reading over to the page he had in front of him.

“Why do you always read that section?” she asked. “The notices?”

“Oh - it’s only out of habit. You can always find mention of public auctions for businesses that have been foreclosed on - assets seized, being sold by the bank.” He smoothed out another page. “Sometimes there’d be something useful, that could be grabbed up on the cheap. Machinery, or dry bulk goods.”

“There’s one.” Leaning over, Belle pointed.

Scrooge could see clearer from his side: “Ah, no - that’s a house, not anything mercantile.”

“What, the whole house?” That took her by surprise. “Furnishings and all?”

“It would appear.” He skimmed the notice. “Yes, here: _‘all previously itemized articles of property to be held in security at the former residence until date of auction; interested parties should contact the listed offices below’._ I think that either there was no heir to the last owners, or said owner left behind a large amount of debt. Circumstances somehow made it more convenient to sell the lot.”

Things could be more complicated - dueling heirs squabbling over an unclear inheritance, for example - but straightforward explanations were most common.

“It’s an open auction?”

“Yes. To be held next month.”

“What’s with that bit about ‘interested parties’?”

“In case anyone wants to have a look at what’s going on the block, first-hand. Descriptions from catalogues aren’t always enough.” He swirled his cup slightly, eyeing the remainder. “It’s a common enough arrangement.”

Belle was quiet a moment, heavily contemplative for reasons he couldn’t grasp.

“Is it a big house?” she inquired, eventually.

He checked the paper again. “I should think so, at that address.”

She smiled, slow and pleased. “Well, that sounds perfect then.”

“Perfect?” He looked across quizzically. “For...what? I don’t follow.”

“For a rainy day outing with the children! Don’t you think it sounds like an adventure?” She leaned forward on folded arms. “Exploring some winding abandoned manor, still full of fancy belongings; big rooms, loads of surprises, maybe even a mystery or two.”

“I doubt there’ll be any mysteries,” he remarked, arch. “Those are often carried out in a hatbox, first thing.”

“Mr. Ebenezer…” she softly reproved his lack of sport.

“You’re making it sound like one of your two-penny sensationals. All it is, is an old house, with things just as old no doubt left inside it.”

“Fine.” She was undaunted. “Perhaps you don’t find it an exciting notion, sir, but consider - we are talking about amusement for _children._ ”

That point did give him pause. He looked at the address and dates again. It could work, theoretically.

“You really think they might enjoy that?”

“I wouldn’t say it otherwise.”

He frowned with uncertainty. His analytical line of thinking was too used to stripping any situation of its fanciful elements, the little bits of stray fluff and dust with which imaginations could run wild.

His own ‘imagination’ hardly deserved the name - it subsisted on a diet of hard math, occasional bits of memoir and sociology, and had forgotten how to daydream. It was, he thought with some regret, a wizened paltry creature; suspicious of every sunbeam and forced limerick.

But if he could not make himself a child again, he could at least try to remember what it’d been like to be a boy who enjoyed reading about adventures. He supposed, then, he could see how the prospect of a little exploration of the kind Belle described could be intriguing, and inviting.

If nothing else, it would be different. That did seem something Fred’s children liked so far - that he let them do things that were different.

So he made arrangements, let the parents know what was planned. Emilia had no objections - Fred seemed almost disappointed he couldn’t come along; as good an indication as any this outing held promise, to one of right mindset.

There they all were, on that Sunday in early afternoon, bundled up in a line as six of them made their way down the pavement.

It was raining lightly, more a wet fog almost than real precipitation. Combined with the chill, Scrooge knew for his part he’d be happy soon as they got inside - the house couldn’t be expected to be much warmer, shuttered as it was, but at least it would be dry.

Ricky and Peter made merry, talking and jostling one another. Charlotte was conversing with Belle. Mathilde stayed close to Scrooge - and she was the only one of the children, he noted, who looked less than excited; but when he asked if anything was wrong, she quickly assured him nothing was.

The house lay central to what seemed like its own city block; drawing exhalations as they approached and it came clearer into view. Though Scrooge remained silent he’d admit he was impressed - he’d forgotten there was a time when they built houses like this right in the city.

There was a separate carriage house, and a greenhouse. The roofs spiraled upward in the best urban romantic approximation of a castle.

“Say what you will, Mr. Ebenezer,” Belle observed quietly, with note of awe, “this is exactly the type of setting for the murder at the start of a penny-blood.”

“I would’ve thought it more a Gothic novel.”

“Well it’d have to be in the countryside for that, wouldn’t it? Rolling hills, dense forests, not another soul to turn to for help.”

“Indeed.”

Rather than isolation, there were two men waiting in front of the house for them. One was tall with a slender mustache and authoritative air. The other fellow, short and plump with perfectly round eyeglasses, was no doubt the first’s assistant.

“Mr. Scrooge?” the tall man called; assistant remaining smiling speechless.

“Yes, correct.” He broke from the pack to close the distance, extending gloved hand for polite shake. “And you then must be Mr. Quincy. Thank you again for permitting this.”

“Not at all, sir. You are hardly the only one to show an interest. I anticipate a very busy day at the block when time rolls around.”

“In full disclosure, I doubt there will be anything here I myself feel interest to purchase.”

“Yes, I did wonder,” Quincy mused, not batting an eye. “I think I’ve heard your name before, sir, and I was of the impression your business hadn’t much to do with furnishings.”

He gave nod of acknowledgment. “No. This trip is not business, rather a vague form of pleasure.” He indicated the group, waiting. “An outing for the children. It’s difficult to keep coming up with novel things to do with a large group after a long winter.”

Quincy wasn’t offended to hear this - why should he be? It cost him nothing to let another respectable gentleman poke around, regardless of reason. Indeed, he’d already profited by the tip that was his unofficial courtesy fee.

“You are their grandfather, then?”

“Ah, great-uncle,” Scrooge corrected mildly. “Close enough, I suppose - merely a removal of one relation.”

A perfectly understandable mistake, but he felt odd hearing it. It was first he realized he _was_ somewhat fulfilling that role - granting the children enjoyment, pleasing and indulging them.

If trying to picture himself as a father, even theoretically, had been incongruous - finding himself holding a grandfatherly position was even the more astonishing.

Quincy put palm out toward his assistant, who fumbled briefly in his pocket to produce a key. Quincy held up the key, before handing it to Scrooge.

“The inner doors are unlocked. Outside of the main house is off-limits; nothing remains there of interest, anyway. The plants have long died and I’m to understand the horses were one of the first things to be sold. Take as long as you like. We’ve a watchman stationed out front - please leave this with him after you are done, sir.”

“Be sure you stop by the attic,” the assistant put in unexpectedly, with encouraging grin. “Loads of interesting stuff still hiding up there.”

Scrooge touched his hat-brim as response: “Ah, thank you.” He addressed the pair, “A good day to you both, gentlemen.”

Formalities and farewells exchanged, he helped Belle lead the children swiftly inside.

His first impression was only he was glad not to be rained on any longer; how in absence of wind and damp it felt warmer than he’d predicted. Although, not _that_ warm: not one of their party made motion to remove hat or gloves, or unfasten a single coat button.

The grandeur of surrounding dimension became apparent as they moved from the front door, finding themselves in what appeared to serve as the main foyer.

It must have been a beautiful house once. Architecturally speaking, it remained so; archways over doors made walking into each room feel like entering a temple – the paint on the walls maintained enough there was still color in the gilt, and in addition to paintings and decorative mirrors still hanging there were swirling elaborate designs in the plaster, some all the way to the ceiling.

But the rooms had been shut up so long they’d started to feel – wrong, somehow. Heavy stillness in the air made it harder to picture this ever being a home.

Most of the furniture was draped or wrapped in tarps, a sea of pale shapes. The lack of movement, of sound, from anywhere made the walls seem to dull.

He gazed around without speaking, caught between quiet wonder and uncertainty.

The children and Belle were not similarly affected – lifting heads to take in everything, they smiled open-mouthed, gasping with surprise and delight.

Ricky, Peter and Charlotte pointed in different directions, talking over one another as they indicated something of interest.

“I’ve never seen a house this big, from the inside part of it.” Belle remarked, “To think this all belonged to one person!”

“It looks almost more like a hotel,” Mathilde agreed, tentatively, “or a museum.”

“Yes,” Scrooge murmured, “it does.”

‘Museum’ in fact seemed more apropos by the second, the more attentively he looked. Even beneath the sheets and across the distances he recognized styles, flourishes, that would’ve been in fashion around his childhood – a generation ago.

It seemed the house had been in stasis even longer than at first apparent; decorated long ago by an owner who then failed to move on even as they continued living, attempting to stubbornly hold against the natural passage of time.

“Let’s all try to stay together,” he said, looking over his shoulder to discover Ricky on his toes, on the verge of practically falling into another room. “Or at the least, remain in pairs.”

“Just imagine,” Peter grinned, planting a hand on Ricky’s shoulder, “if you got lost. In all these rooms. You’d probably wander around forever, and they’d _never_ find you.”

“Yeah!” His brother chimed in with same gleeful malice. “You’d waste away and rot under the floorboards. People who moved in would be kept up at night by your voice, trapped forever, calling for help.”

“That would _never_ happen,” Mathilde corrected angrily. “It’s not that big! Anyway, people know where we are and would come looking.”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Peter complained.

“Yeah!” Ricky agreed.

“Because trying to scare yourselves silly with tales of getting lost and starving is fun?” she retorted.

“You wouldn’t starve, you’d die from lack of water first,” Scrooge murmured factually, realizing half a second too late he wasn’t helping.

“Mathilde _is_ right though,” Belle quickly put in. “There’s the watchman out front, and the men we got the house-key from – not to mention your mother and father. Any of them would try to find us by the time it got dark, maybe even before. Worse came to it, we could always break a window, climb out.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ricky, disheartened at the reminder of windows.

“So I’m sorry, boys,” Belle jokingly apologized, “there will be no harrowing accidental imprisonments today.”

“We were only kidding, anyway,” Peter went.

“I know, I know.” She touched his arm. “But you shouldn’t try to scare your sister like that.”

“I’m _not_ scared,” Mathilde huffed, frowning.

There was just the right note of indignation in her tone; though neither her brothers nor Belle called her out on it, Scrooge could have kicked himself – how hadn’t it occurred to him out of four children, one might be prone to being scared and not enjoying the experience?

He watched Mathilde from corner of his eye, feeling little he could say wouldn’t worsen the situation. “Let’s move along,” he suggested.

They passed through the ground floor – several parlors, a regally long hallway, a music room, what appeared to be either a lady’s office or her private library. Carpets had been rolled up, conspicuously leaning against the walls nearby, floors resounding with every step in the otherwise silence.

The children occasionally made remarks, though in whispers now. The pervasive, undisturbed atmosphere was having effect on them whether they realized it or not.

Perhaps the others felt like explorers, every corner they rounded promising new discovery. They did seem to be enjoying themselves. Scrooge was unsure, himself.

He was trying uncomfortably not to think the grand old house reminded him of a mausoleum.

There was something about it that seemed – _sad_ , he eventually realized. This place that’d obviously been so full of not just life but pride, now reduced to something people visited to gawk and stare; a curiosity of what once was. A relic.

A type of sentimentality he’d never noticed in himself before; to feel such about a place, an object, he’d no personal history with. He examined that with as much bemusement as he did the surroundings.

Eventually they found what was clearly the ‘grand staircase’ – carpeted, wide, with swooping banisters. They had to stop simply to take in the beautiful oddity.

“That looks like something out of an opera,” Mathilde remarked – sounding pleased and relaxed, to his relief.

“It does, doesn’t it,” he agreed – having never attended the opera himself, he still understood perfectly the aesthetic.

“I can picture some grand lady swanning down, in a gown with a lovely train, dripping in jewelry,” Belle exclaimed. “Making her entrance to a room full of party guests, waiting for her to announce the opening of the ball. Or - some beautiful girl who’s just made her debut, fanning herself demurely with an ivory-handled ostrich plume as she comes down to greet her passel of suitors.”

“Or the final dramatic appearance of Ophelia, scattering flowers,” Scrooge said with wry amusement – figuring if they were going to be fanciful, might as well go to extremes.

Belle tittered, casting a look at him.

“Do you know anything about the people that _did_ live here, Mr. Ebenezer? Did you take a chance to do any research?”

“As a matter of fact, I did do some.” Once it was decided they were coming, he’d looked into it – mainly to settle how it’d wound up being auctioned in such a manner.

Though without any friends, he did know people - people in the business of _knowing things_. Rumors and details always willingly repeated for a few coins, or the cost of a single drink. He made inquiries; for so simple a matter, it hadn’t even taken long.

“Well, go on.” Belle folded her hands; the children looked on, attentive. “Tell us.”

“I’ll tell you the facts that I’m aware of. Though, in exchange - I’d like you all to help me find something.”

“Help you find what?” Mathilde asked warily.

“Mr. Quincy’s assistant mentioned an attic, that may still hold items of fascination. Now, given the usual design of residences such as these, no doubt the entrance to the attic is...somewhat hidden, made for use primarily by servants. We might have to search for it among the rooms of the next floor, when we get that far.”

Ricky and Peter exchanged a glance, too thrilled to speak. Charlotte beamed; Mathilde looked contemplative.

“Like a treasure hunt,” Belle declared.

“Certainly,” Scrooge humored her with mildly sardonic air.

She tilted her head, smiling unabashed.

“Now then - as I said, I will tell you what I know. I doubt it will make for too captivating a story; I’ve no gift for such things, lacking the talent for… _narrative flourish_ , that some possess.”

Belle’s eyes had narrowed, smile becoming a wry smirk as she recognized how he was referring to her.

He glanced at their surroundings idly, mulled over his words. “This was the childhood home of the woman who eventually became Lady Henderson. It must’ve remained something of a favored place; when in due time it was passed to her as a part of her inheritance, she made it her primary residence.”

He shrugged, with an almost dismissive smile.

“In the prime of her life, evidently she was something of a stylish high society matron – throwing lavish parties, dances, amateur theatricals. Her social calendar dominated the Season. Supposedly, anyone who was anyone wanted to attend.”

“What happened to her?” Mathilde demanded, keenly cutting. “Something tragic?”

“That depends entirely on your definition of ‘tragic’,” he replied. “What happened is the inevitable fate of those who live their lives entirely for fashion – eventually, she became unfashionable. She grew older, the world moved on without her. People stopped wanting to come to her, and she was too vain still to go to them. By all accounts she ended the last years of her life…unwell, and in utter seclusion.”

Belle’s eyebrows rose over his pronunciation of ‘unwell’ – recognizing it as euphemism. Luckily, the children didn’t catch onto it.

Scrooge saw no point in elaborating that detail. From what he’d been told, the woman had not lapsed into theatrical madness – not an Ophelia, nor a Lady Macbeth. Her illness left her drifting from reality, unable to comprehend anything said to her, or keep track of where and when she was. She’d become helpless, childlike, nearly a mute.

It wasn’t dramatic enough to enthrall those with ghoulish fascination for such things. It was merely pathetic.

“She died, of old age, around five years ago. There was one surviving child – a son, the new Lord Henderson, who’d already sunk quite a bit of his income into living the fast life on offer to one of his background and resources.”

Drink, food, clothes, gambling, horses, dogs, women…he didn’t bother elaborating this either.

“By the time his mother died and this house became his, he was in his fifties and not the best of health, and he’d no interest in living here – likely, he couldn’t afford to pay for the upkeep. He sold off a few items but mostly left it alone, untouched.” He concluded: “And, now he’s dead also. He never married. The title passes to some cousin who perhaps never met the main branch of the family – this house and contents are being sold to clear whatever debts are left unsettled.”

As he’d said, he wasn’t much for story-telling – and the facts here, he felt, didn’t make much of a story. Perhaps in Belle’s hands, she could’ve spun something out of it. Or perhaps Marley: he too had the gift for flawless, persuasive elaboration.

Scrooge was far too detail-oriented, and he’d no sense of where to put parts of a tale to make it sound interesting to anyone but himself.

“There you have it.” He gestured. “Hardly the material of novels or theatre; but then, reality rarely is.”

His audience, he was reassured to see, hadn’t turned mutinous with disappointment at him. Mathilde looked pensive; Belle had arms folded, biting her lip to probably keep back comments she didn’t fully care enough to voice. The boys seemed mainly impatient.

“Can we go upstairs now?” Ricky asked.

“Yes; yes, you may…”

Peter and Ricky rushed past, Belle and Mathilde moving more sensibly behind them, but at that point Scrooge realized who was missing.

“Hold on.” He looked between the boys halfway up the staircase, the two figures closer to the bottom – he spun and glanced into every room he could investigate nearby. “Where’s Charlotte?”

There was no sign of her. She must have wandered off while he was talking; so quiet and small none of them had noticed her slipping away.

He made a frustrated sound. “Carry on upstairs. I’ll go and find her.”

“Mr. Ebenezer, wait-” Belle protested.

“Stay with the children,” he ordered, leaving no room for argument. Ricky was already out of sight, Peter was nearly gone also, though Mathilde lingered with concern as she’d noticed what was happening. “Make sure they keep together.”

He stalked off into the rest of the rooms, alone.

Though plenty of light came through the windows that somber gloominess he’d felt earlier became stronger, now he was by himself. He called Charlotte’s name, head turning as he searched for any sign of her passing.

His voice echoed in the stillness, but every room and object maintained that sense of untouched lifelessness.

He went from one to the next – he was hardly lost, although the rooms did seem bigger for how much a hurry he was in to be gone.

Annoyance at Charlotte was fading, replaced by nervousness over how long it was taking to find her; even a touch of true panic.

She had to _be_ there, somewhere. The house could’ve hardly swallowed her up. But he was unable to shake the sensation he’d often had over the years when in his own rooms, late at night, no sound but the faint tick of the clocks, watching shadows move gradually in the empty corners – as if he was only the living soul in existence.

Had that ever given him sense of comfort? Perhaps he’d lied to himself at times, said it did.

“Charlotte? _Charlotte!_ ”

Rounding a corner, still no sign of her. He paused as his eyes hit one of the pictures on the wall opposite.

Facing him was a massive oil painting, more than half the height of the wall itself, of a richly-attired noblewoman; dark-haired, seated in an armchair with a dog at her feet. She was still young though the high collar of her gown, the way she dripped in diamonds and furs, made it clear she was already married. Her head up high, she gazed from the painting with proud smile and confident eyes.

He’d paid little attention to the uncovered artworks elsewhere in the house, portraits and landscape alike, but it seemed fitting if any should’ve caught his eye it’d be this one.

He felt little doubt who the woman in the painting was. Captured in her glory; dominating every room she entered and expecting as much. Such was the blessing of the painted figure – held forever to one moment, no knowledge of what losses and mistakes might occur later.

In the silence, Charlotte walked right past, in the next room.

His attention honed on her like a shot, everything else completely forgotten.

 _“Charlotte.”_ He went to her; wrapped arms around and held her against him from behind, as if needing reassurance she was real and solid. “There you are! How could you just wander away like that? I told everyone to keep close. You scared me.”

“ _I_ scared _you?_ ” Charlotte giggled, leaning into the embrace.

“It’s a different type of scared. One you’ll understand when you’re older, and have things you’re responsible for – trust me.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Ebenezer,” she said, too easily; not appreciating what distress she’d caused. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“Well, please don’t do that, ever again. I mean it. And so long as we’re here, I want you to remain within sight of either myself or Miss Belle at all times, understood?”

“All right,” she promised, “I will. But look!”

She pointed out, at what she’d been looking at. A vast rounded room with little furniture along the edges, what looked like a piano and a harp in one corner, and its own chandelier.

“Ah yes, the ballroom.” Where he and Charlotte still stood in their hug, facing the same direction, he used his chin to indicate the space; explaining to her.

“This would’ve been where they held private dances. Over there, I imagine, is where the musicians sat – along there is where people would stand and converse; some waiting to be asked to dance, others perhaps hoping to avoid it altogether.”

“Have _you_ ever been to a dance, Uncle?”

“Yes, a few times…a very long time ago.” He chuckled wistfully.

Back when he was young, still at the Exchange, he’d been told attending such gatherings was practically mandatory. They made it sound like the key to professional success; the only reason he’d been persuaded to accept any invitations.

He’d hated every minute, naturally. He’d never known what to do, who to talk to or how, and looking back it was clear he’d arrive already half-determined to have a bad time. He’d exchange a few stiff words with colleagues, try to discuss figures with superiors who’d rather discuss anything else, then skulk in a corner, never once dancing. He’d leave early – hard to think anyone was anything but relieved to see him go.

He’d decided quickly if such socialization was the ‘key’ to success, he’d simply find a different lock.

“Come along,” he said to Charlotte, setting aside the memories, “the others are already upstairs.”

He held Charlotte’s hand up the staircase, something he did without thinking and she seemed to mind not at all. Reaching the next floor they didn’t have to go very far before finding where the rest congregated.

“Well?” Scrooge asked; they were hanging about what appeared to be a private reading room.

“We’ve had our chance to look around already,” Peter informed him.

“I see.” That confirmed how long it’d been – time felt to move so slowly as he’d searched, hard to know what he’d imagined.

“Here’s the little vagabond, then.” Belle addressed Charlotte, leaning forward with hands on her knees. “That wasn’t a very smart thing you did, and not very kind either – running off like that. Can you imagine how your great-uncle and the rest of us would’ve felt, if you’d gotten yourself hurt?”

“I know. Uncle Ebenezer told me, and I apologized. But I am very sorry to you also, Miss Belle.”

If her attitude overall was still upbeat, she had become more contrite.

“And to think,” Belle stood up, “we were probably more worried about Ricky.”

She shot look of exasperation to Scrooge, who nodded in commiseration.

Ricky sat where he was, blithely smiling. He seemed to take his status as a badge of honor.

Belle sighed out with note of fondness. “Well, since you missed the discovering, let me catch you up on the high points. In one of the bedrooms there’s this gorgeous chifferobe with a matching vanity. It looks like it’s meant for a princess.”

“Or a fairy queen?” Charlotte asked eagerly as they left the room.

Belle laughed softly. “Yeah.”

Scrooge turned back to the others, noticing it looked like there was something they were just waiting to tell him.

“Anything else of note?” he prompted.

“We found it,” Mathilde admitted in a sigh.

He understood at once – the entrance to the attic he’d set them on the trail of.

“Really?” The three nodded – the boys practically bobbing eagerness. “Where? Show me.”

They led him to a corridor toward the middle of the building. Grinning, Peter leaned his palm to the wall - a previously hidden doorway swung inward.

“Goodness, look at that.”

The three went through; he followed, having to duck slightly, removing hat and tucking it under his arm.

The hall he found himself in was dimmer even than the rest of the house, floor carpeted to muffle sound, so narrow two people could barely walk abreast.

At opposite end of the passage was another door, behind it a set of spiraling stairs leading upward. The risers were solid but crowded, steep; not to mention the darkness. It looked to be a physically harrowing climb.

On a shelf beside the door were a box of matches and some thick white candles. Scrooge lit one carefully, using it to try seeing the staircase better as he leaned through the door.

“It was Mathilde’s idea where to look,” Peter allowed begrudgingly; he gestured between himself and his brother, “but we were the ones that actually found it.”

“You’ve done a good job. All of you,” he murmured. “Don’t go too far, but see if you can’t retrieve your sister and Miss Belle.”

Nodding Peter went, sliding past his siblings and hurrying down the corridor.

“Are we really going up there?” Mathilde asked.

“I certainly won’t force you, if you don’t want to.”

She frowned, undecided.

Ricky of course couldn’t wait. “What do you think might be hiding up there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want you to get your hopes up – it might not be anything too exciting.”

“Do you think there might be dismembered bodies?” Ricky demanded brightly.

Mathilde groaned, “Oh for heaven’s sake!”

“If _I_ were a murderer, that’s where I’d put _my_ victims,” Ricky continued without shame. “That’s what they always do in novels and such: they cut them up, wrap them, hide the pieces in the attic. The most successful murderers end up with piles to the rafters!”

He gave Ricky a shrewd, flat stare. “Wouldn’t that line of thought rather imply that - were you a vicious, prolific murderer - the attic is the _last_ place you’d want to hide anything? Since people would know it’d be the first place they should look?”

Ricky’s face fell as he considered that seriously.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Mathilde told Scrooge.

“We both know he hardly needs my encouragement,” he returned, dry.

The sound of quick footsteps preceded the arrival of Peter, Charlotte and Belle.

“So, they’ve really found it then.” Even Belle had to move sideways as they crowded around the doorway. “The attic?”

“Yes - we were just debating how many of us wanted to go up.” Aiming for nonchalance he glanced to Belle, then at Mathilde. “I’m sure if some wished to remain down here, then-”

“I’ll go,” Mathilde interrupted, trailing off in soft insistence: “I want to go up too, it’s fine.”

He frowned in concern, but she avoided his gaze; gave no indication she’d change her mind.

“Guess that settles it, then,” Belle concluded - looking at the other children, none of them showing any reservations. “We’ll stick together.”

“Yes.” He indicated the candle: “I think we’ll need more of these.”

Belle handed one off to Peter, then took another for herself.

“Are we confident there’s _anything_ remaining up there?” she questioned; lighting her candle off of Scrooge’s. “That auctioneer’s assistant could’ve been joking with you. If I was to be rid of the contents of a house, I’d think whatever was stuffed in an attic would be the first unwanted enough to go.”

“It’s highly possible whatever was put into the attic, they forgot was even there,” he observed.

That drew a pause from her, a scoffing frown. “I can’t begin to imagine. What it’d be like to have so many things, fine things at that, to the point where they’d be so easily misplaced.”

Her tone was more wistful than wholly bitter - provoked by a careless attitude towards excess.

“I mean, to have a big house full of furniture and art, and a...a closet full of fancy dresses, and so many perfumes and combs and diamonds, that it wouldn’t make any difference-”

“Wait.”

Scrooge’s interruption was almost involuntary. Some phrasing of hers struck him, making him blink.

“What?” Belle easily abandoned her thought, puzzled. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Something you said just now, it was...familiar, almost.”

A woman’s voice, saying something about diamonds - about there being so many of them, one would never be missed. It nagged at him, this significance he couldn’t place.

After a moment he gave up, shaking his head. “Oh, nevermind. It’ll come to me later, if it’s important.”

“If you say so.” Belle glanced at the spiraling stairs, then smiled at the boys. “What do you say, lads? Care to take the lead?”

She hardly needed to ask twice.

Scrooge remained close enough to the door they had to sidle past him, rather than bolting up like it was clear they wanted to.

“ _Please_ be careful. The last thing desired is for this day to be ruined by someone stumbling in the dark and getting hurt. Try to go slow, and keep one hand on the bannister.”

The appeal had at least some effect on Peter. As the brothers ascended, he held Ricky’s hand tight, keeping candle up high, watching their steps.

Once they’d a chance to make room, Belle went next, taking Charlotte with her. “Ready?”

“Yeah!” the smallest child gleefully replied.

That left him and Mathilde. He waited as the steps from the others faded; addressing her softly.

“It’s fine if you feel a bit frightened - even if you’d rather not admit as much in front of the others,” he said knowingly. “It’s natural to be...unsettled, by too much quiet, or the dark. We tell ourselves it’s merely our imagination playing tricks; that it’s foolish to be afraid. But that doesn’t always help.”

Mathilde didn’t say anything but her expression went from tense, defensive, to a reluctant consideration.

He put his hat back on - offering his freed hand to her.

“I won’t let anything here harm you. So long as you’re with me, I promise you’ll remain safe.”

She placed hand in his, trustingly. She didn’t have to respond aloud: it was clear from how she met his eyes that she believed him.

As they made way up the stairs he went slightly first, using candle to illuminate each step, patiently glancing to check on her as she kept one hand on the rail to steady them both.

“Why do these stairs go so far up?” Mathilde questioned. “Are we climbing to one of those towers I saw from the outside?”

“Far likelier, we are completely bypassing the next floor. I saw no kitchens downstairs so no doubt they are beneath the main floor. That would put the servants’ quarters up here instead. These steps were built to avoid having to move through them, to reach this storage space.”

“At home we have only a girl who lives in,” she told him, offhand. “The cook comes to work during the day. And sometimes Mother hires in an extra servant or two, for big parties. But the girl sleeps downstairs with the stove, and with Tiger.”

“Do you reckon this is what those explorer chaps felt like over in Egypt?” Peter called, as if to deliberately counter domestic chatter. “When they went into the pyramids, to find the tombs of the pharaohs?”

“Do you know what a pharaoh is, Miss Belle?” went Charlotte helpfully. “That means a king!”

“I _do_ know, yes,” she replied with fondness. “I’ve read about those in the newspapers. Sometimes they’ll advertise a public exhibition with their mummies, although good luck ever getting in.” She shook her head, chortling. “But you know, actually, I hear they’re moving on into private entertainments. Folk just back from their trips with a souvenir to unwrap before guests over tea and biscuits!”

“Our parents were invited to one of those,” Mathilde stated. “Last spring.”

“Were they really?” Scrooge didn’t know what to make of the revelation. That Fred was connected enough to be invited to a wealthier-class flight of fancy - or that these ‘mummy-unwrapping parties’ were truly becoming that popular.

“Yes, but they didn’t go,” Mathilde went on. “Mother said the concept was too ghastly.”

“I’m with her on that, entirely. Imagine,” he drawled, “having your rest disturbed, your mortal remains propped up to be pawed before an audience of strangers.”

"You’d think the dead might be past caring about such things,” Belle commented.

He had to smile, wryly. “One would certainly hope so.”

The stairs at last opened to the attic - one by one they climbed up and out into the space.

Whatever eerie sights had been anticipated, that vision was banished. This was a proper floor where they could stand upright, not some cubby underneath eaves. It was well-lit also, large windows stripped of curtains.

As promised however, it wasn’t empty. There were furniture, boxes aplenty; arranged and stacked with surprising neatness.

The children scattered, if not quickly. Peter dropped his candle in eagerness to have hands free – Belle retrieved it, extinguishing hers as well as his, leaving them by top of the stairs.

Charlotte beamed at her reflection in an ornate standing mirror. Mathilde studied the roses that’d been painted on an antique armoire. Peter and Ricky sifted through crates, revealing china flatware and crystal wineglasses.

“You were right,” Belle said, as they watched. “There is plenty up here. Look at all these steamer trunks.”

He made sound of agreement.

Like what they’d seen below, the things were finely-made but outdated. Noticeably, much seemed items which possibly held personal value more than monetary.

The thought flickered into being these might’ve been things most associated with happiest times, the triumphant years; when it stopped being practical to have them, they were relocated to the attic, hoarded along with the associated memories – yet another thing that was clung to far past the time for moving on.

Even more of the sentimental assessment that was usually so unlike him. If this kept up, he might develop a headache.

Unaware of his thoughts, Belle went over to one of the trunks. A particularly large specimen, its exterior sleek as ebony, secured with gilded corners and heavy hinges.

Belle thumped the side of it with her boot. She gave him a contemplative smirk.

“Ever heard the one about the hide-and-seek bride?”

That drew an unexpected chuckle: “As a matter of fact, I have. One of those stories from my school days, told in whispered gatherings in the dormitory at night as the boys tried frightening one another.”

“ _I_ haven’t heard of that one.”

At Peter’s voice, Scrooge looked up, startled – they’d caught the attention of the children.

The four expressed varying degrees of interest, drifting back closer.

“I want to hear a frightening story!” Ricky declared.

He tried to object, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Well, what better time and place?” Belle countered. “You must admit, it _is_ awfully conveniently atmospheric.”

“Well, yes. But-”

Somewhat anxious, his gaze drifted to Mathilde.

In response to the unasked question in his eyes, she gave slightest shrug with her shoulders.

“It _is_ only a story,” she concluded, soft. “It can’t scare us too much, if we know we’ll really be safe.”

“Well…all right. I suppose if you’re all so interested, no point in not indulging you. Miss Belle?”

“Oh, certainly! It’s only…”

She paused; pressed a finger to her lips, consternation that might’ve fooled the children but he instantly recognized as pantomime.

“You know, I cannot quite recall, how it begins.”

The children moaned and protested, as he sharply frowned.

He recognized the way Belle’s eyes lit up. This was her belated response to his comparison between their story-telling abilities earlier – she was trying to force his hand.

He gave as withering a glower as he dared with an audience; she was unmoved. She tilted her head, half-smiling in determination.

Repressing both sigh and eye-roll, he addressed the children in as oratory a voice as he could.

“Once, some time ago, a wealthy young man of good family was getting married.”

He was too irritated to second-guess himself. His memory was excellent for details – usually not such as these, but if he could only repeat what he’d been told once, he could probably carry this off.

“The groom was said to be handsome, charming, and very popular,” he continued. “He was probably the most sought-after bachelor of the Season. His bride, fortunately, was his equal…in every respect but one. You see while she was lovely as could be desired, her dowry commendable, she was as reserved as he was sociable. He was always laughing, always joking. She on the other hand was quiet, serious. It was said she never smiled.”

He swept gaze across the half-circle of his audience as he spoke, checking if he held their attention. So far, he did.

Without realizing it he’d gone into the precise eloquence he’d tended toward when lecturing someone or emphasizing a point. To his mild surprise, it applied to this situation well.

“A few of the young man’s friends said things to him, during the engagement. They expressed concern the marriage wouldn’t go well, with a wife so unlike him in temperament. But he dismissed their words. He felt his bride would warm to him, and that they would be very happy and merry together – it was only a matter of time.

“The day for the wedding came. The ceremony of course was magnificent, elaborate, as befitting such a couple - everything went without a hitch. Afterward the newlyweds and all their guests retired to the country estate owned by the groom’s parents, for the reception. It was an old house that’d been in the family for generations. Very fancy…”

He glanced toward roof of the home they were in, as if by accident, before locking eyes with the children again.

“ _Very_ large.”

Usually when he went on this way, he was tearing somebody down. In contrast, his listeners this time were growing keener by the moment.

He realized he was actually enjoying this.

“The party went on, for hours. After the meal, the drinks, the dancing...the groom and his usual circle began to grow bored. The idea arose they should play a game. It was the groom who suggested hide-and-seek.

“Normally of course a bunch of adults playing hide-and-seek, at such formal occasion as a wedding, simply wouldn’t be done. But that was the type of man the groom was. When he said it, it sounded like a good idea - a unique bit of fun. He didn’t have to try hard to persuade them. But, what about the bride?”

He paused, emphasis on the question.

“At first she wanted to sit out, wait downstairs while the rest of them played. The groom - perhaps remembering what his friends said to him, eager to begin proving them wrong - spoke to her coaxingly. It was _her_ wedding, he reminded her. Why leave herself out of the fun? What was the harm in playing?

“So to the surprise of more than a few, the bride agreed. The groom wanted to be ‘it’ first. So he closed his eyes. He began counting to ten. One…”

Belle joined in unexpectedly on ‘two’ - turning an unthinking habit on his part into a dramatic build of tension, as together they slowly counted aloud.

By ‘three’ they had Charlotte and Ricky counting too.

By ‘four’, Peter followed suit.

And by ‘five’, Mathilde had chimed in also.

“...six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” The group finished counting, watching Scrooge expectantly.

“He began searching. It was, as mentioned, a very large house - so large one could almost imagine getting lost in it and never being found.” He shot a look at Peter and Ricky, who grinned. “But it was the groom’s childhood home, so find everyone he did.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“Everyone that is, except for one...the bride. He searched and searched, but couldn’t find her anywhere. Eventually everyone else joined in on the searching too. What began as a game became a true search in earnest. But no matter. They looked well into the night...she was nowhere to be found.

“No one could figure out what happened. If she had run away, why was there no sign of whoever helped her? If some foul play had befallen her, why was there no sign of that either? It was a mystery - but a very sad one, for the man who’d gotten married.

“Time passed. Months turned into years. The young man, who stopped being young, never did recover. He never married again, and his once carefree, joyful attitude faded away. He himself had become quiet, almost never smiling.

“There came a day when the house - the house where the ill-fated reception had been - was being sold. With no family to live in it, there was no point keeping it any longer. The man went along with the servants to help pack everything up.

“He was by himself when he went up into the attic. He began sorting through what was there - treasured heirlooms worth taking, from old junk to be discarded. He came upon a trunk. A large one, very old, with a latch that stuck. It took all his strength to pry it open.

“And inside...there she was. His bride. Or what was left of her.”

The children gave a silent gasp.

“You see, that day when she agreed to play hide-and-seek, she found her way to the attic and decided the trunk would be the perfect place to hide. And she was right - too right. The lid slammed shut on her and she was trapped inside. She ran out of air, long before anyone ever heard her cries for help. All that was left,” he concluded, “by the time her would-be husband found her, was little more than bones wrapped in tattered remains of her wedding dress - with a skeletal grin forever affixed on her face.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then his audience began making the pleased sounds he recognized as children celebrating in wake of having heard a good ghost story.

“That was a ripping one, Uncle!” Peter declared. “Top notch!”

“Yeah!” Ricky cheered.

“That was a good story, Uncle Ebenezer, thank you,” Charlotte said brightly.

Ricky turned to his brother. “Do you think any of _these_ trunks have got skeletons in them?”

“Only one way to find out,” Peter responded. They dashed off as one.

“Oh, I _hate_ you both!” Mathilde darted after them - rather undercutting her vehemence.

Charlotte simply followed her siblings like a duckling.

“Well done.” Belle quietly applauded on palm of one hand. “I daresay I couldn’t have told it any better myself.”

“Well no, you couldn’t have, seeing as you don’t remember the story. Or,” he utilized heavy sarcasm, “has your memory been restored?”

“Hmm, yes.” She didn’t conceal her smile. “I do believe it has come back to me.”

“You know, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” he went, a touch sour. “At some point these little pranks you’ve a tendency to pull _will_ catch me in a bad one. It won’t go well for you then.”

“I will accept that risk, and any consequences, if occasionally pulling you from pattern continues to be so rewarding! What was that before, about you not having any ‘narrative flourish’?”

“I only repeated what I was told when I was young,” he said dismissively.

“No you didn’t,” she retorted. “Those were not the words of a schoolboy, Mr. Ebenezer - they were yours.”

He mulled over what he said again, discovering she was right.

Taking in the confounded look on his face Belle sidled closer, arms folded. “Sometimes I swear it’s almost as if you’re two different people. One doesn’t want to let the other have any fun.”

He stared at her, not knowing what to say.

There was a thud from the other side of the attic - they swiveled to look.

“We can’t get this one open!”

“Yes; very funny, Peter,” Scrooge said disapprovingly.

Gathered around the same trunk Belle had been toying with earlier, the children huddled at floor level.

“I’m serious,” the oldest boy defended himself.

“We _can’t_ ,” Ricky emphasized.

Belle exchanged an uncertain look with Scrooge; both wondering if there was an attempt at a scare in progress. But they came closer.

“The latch really won’t open,” Peter said. “See?”

“It’s stuck,” Charlotte said.

“No,” Mathilde corrected, “it’s _locked_. There’s no sign of a key.”

They were telling the truth, and she was right. He held his candle nearer, examining the padlock affixed to the lid.

“You realize there’s likely only more of the same stuff in there as the other boxes,” Belle pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s the _only_ one we can’t open,” Ricky exclaimed. “That makes it a mystery we can’t walk away from!”

“That’s rather introspective of you, Ricky,” Scrooge said with surprised frankness.

Since they weren’t to be deterred or distracted he knelt down, lifting lock for a better look.

“We could try breaking it with something heavy,” Belle suggested half-heartedly. “Do you think the auctioneers would mind?”

“I doubt they’d notice. They’ll have to get this open anyway, before it goes on the block.” He hesitated, then made a decision. “Charlotte, hold the light for me, please - but be careful.”

He handed the candle off; her height would keep it the closest. He then proceeded to fix her and her siblings with sternest look.

“Now I want none of you to mention what you are about to see to your parents. Do you understand? Especially you, Ricky." He paused. “Miss Belle...if I could borrow one of your longer hairpins?”

“...You aren’t serious,” she practically gasped.

He held his hand out, expression flat.

Quickly she slipped off her bonnet; freeing a pin from the base of where her braid was twisted up, giving it to him.

He bent an end slightly with his teeth, tilted bottom of the lock up, slid it into place. “Now, let’s see if I can still - ah.”

The click resounded. Small smile of satisfaction appeared on his face.

His grand-nieces and nephews never looked more astonished or impressed.

“Don’t get too excited.” He stood. “I can do it because it’s a basic old lock, only one tumbler - anyone can learn to manage that. _Not_ that I’m going to teach you, _Peter_ ,” he preemptively declared.

Seemingly not knowing what else to say, the children dove on the now-open trunk as their consolation prize. He did his best to put the hairpin to rights before returning it to Belle.

She had expression to rival those of the children. “Wherever and however did you learn to do that?”

“My late business partner was a more worldly man than I.”

She shook her head, laughing silently, as she put her pin back.

“Look at that,” Peter exclaimed. The four were pulling out the contents of the trunk, expressing far more interest than predicted.

One glance revealed why. Instead of relatively mundane items it was full of gauzy silks and brocades in outrageously vibrant colors; overflowing with headpieces, feathers and costume jewelry. If it wasn’t a literal treasure trove, it was something almost better to its youthful discoverers.

“Well now - look at that, indeed.” Belle joined them, running hand over a shimmering scarf. “Why would they have these things?”

“There was a time when putting on plays or acting in costumed pantomimes at a party was quite common among high society adults.” Scrooge eyed the cache with mild curiosity. “It’s fallen out of favor now, but that’s probably what those are for - part of the costuming for the home theatre.”

“Isn’t that fun! Well, there’s no chance to rehearse a show just now...but plenty of time to try things on,” Belle enthused to the children - who hardly needed further prompting than that.

Costume bits were already flying out in a kaleidoscopic flurry. Hats, prop weapons, glittering necklaces were passed around and traded and quietly fought over. Within moments they more resembled street players or even tinkers for the plethora they were piled with.

Belle was wearing a pink and gold shawl, a long chain of fake emeralds, and a set of bangles that matched neither. “Oh my,” she crowed - holding up a turban. Unsurprisingly given when the costumes dated to, they’d a heavy Oriental flavor; the turban as ornamental and dramatic as the other pieces. “Now this is something.”

“Let me try it on, Miss Belle!”

“I think this might be a bit big for your head, Peter - but maybe it’d fit _you_ , Mr. Ebenezer.”

“Clever. But no, I don’t think so,” he insisted, as she held it toward him hopefully.

“Aw, come on now. Join us, it’ll only take a moment!”

“I’d only get in the way of your amusement.”

He could feel a smirk of derision threatening to form so he turned away, facing out unto the rest of the attic.

As he did he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. He looked up.

Among the shadows, in a wide gap between forgotten trunks and furniture, stood a pale figure gazing back.

Age had turned her skin to colorless parchment-paper, her hair solidly white. But he recognized the features of Lady Henderson from her portrait – the _late_ Lady Henderson.

His breath caught and he nearly dropped his candle.

This wasn’t like the vanishing giant, something he couldn’t be certain of. _This_ was undeniably a ghost.

Before Christmas he would’ve rationalized it away. The uneven lighting in the attic crafting an illusion, to which he mistakenly attributed a face he’d seen earlier. After all, he’d as little fancy about him as any man in London.

But he was also a man who clung to his knowledge and experiences. He knew he wasn’t imagining this. The figure was clear as day.

And he would never forget how being near a spirit looked and felt.

“Mr. Ebenezer? What is it?”

He’d a notion how he must look. His eyes had gone wide, body frozen, staring stupefied at-

But they should’ve been able to see it too, from where they were. The figure was solid, in position not hidden from them.

He glanced over but found no fear or shock on their faces. Only mild confusion.

He looked back, half-expecting the ghost to be gone – but no. It stood there, gazing emptily, for five thuds of his pulse. After that, only then did it turn and fade into nothing.

“What?” Belle prompted again, vaguely concerned at his prolonged silence.

“I-I thought I saw something.”

He lifted the candle higher, illuminating the now-empty space.

Belle made incredulous sound. “Oh, come on now,” she said, by tone seeming to think _he_ was playing at frightening them.

“I’m serious.” He tried to calm himself, speak evenly; his thoughts moving rapidly. “I could have sworn that there was…something.”

No reason to tell them the truth. He inhaled, managing to feign an indifferent smile.

“Obviously though it was nothing. Merely some trick of the light.”

Belle was staring skeptically, not sure what to make of this. The children remained confused. He shrugged an apology.

A plan began to form.

“You know,” he went, casually as he could, “on second thought…I believe I _will_ give the turban a go.”

He removed his hat, setting it on nearest flat and relatively dust-free surface. That this happened to place it behind a box, where it’d be easy to forget about – well, that was just serendipitous.

His change of heart was met with approval enough to banish whatever doubts his actions a moment before had given them. The children were of course enthused to have another join in their game, and Belle was delighted as she helped him put the turban on and set it just so.

It was heavier than his top-hat; but rather than feeling self-conscious he stood tall, practically striking a pose, offering himself for the children’s scrutiny.

“How do I look?” he asked, as if perfectly serious.

Peter, Ricky and even Mathilde were clearly restraining some degree of laughter.

“ _I_ like it,” the youngest decided. “You should keep it.”

“Oh no Charlotte, I can’t do that. Although it is tempting…”

“You look downright majestic,” Belle said in teasing compliment. “The very image of Ali Baba.”

“Ali Baba wouldn’t have worn a turban in this style; he wasn’t a sultan, nor a ruler of any kind,” he corrected.

She gave him a flat look.

“What? It’s true.”

“All right, mister gentleman scholar,” she said dryly, “it’s getting late, and I promised to remind you we owe the children a meal before they’re returned to their parents.”

Getting the turban off she brushed dust from his shoulder, reaching to smooth an errant lock of his hair. Distracted as he was, the physical closeness barely registered.

“Ah – thank you,” he said, for the assistance and the reminder.

“Not at all.” An absent smile, before addressing the children. “Let’s do what we can do to put everything back where it started, shall we?”

They did their best to repack the trunk, fix anything else needing putting to rights. Belle and Peter relit their candles, and together they proceeded back down in the same pairs they’d come up in.

The spiraling staircase felt just as long, for by now they were wearied from an afternoon of exertion; but the tension was gone, and it was no longer foreboding. Even the darkness of it seemed less pervasive.

He waited until they’d reached the bottom before inquiring of Mathilde, “You enjoyed yourself today, I hope?”

He wasn’t worried about the others – they were brimming with excitement over the stories they now had to tell. But with her, he wasn’t entirely certain.

“I did, actually.” She gratified him with a soft smile. “Thank you for bringing us here, Uncle.”

He smiled back. “You’re welcome. I’m glad to see that you all had a good time.”

They continued through the rooms, had returned to the grand staircase, when it was Mathilde who suddenly noticed:

“Uncle Ebenezer – where’s your hat?”

“You know,” he paused, hoping he wasn’t overselling the ‘realization’, “I must have forgotten it in the attic.”

“You _didn’t_ ,” Belle protested, affronted with disbelief.

The others made similar sounds.

“It’s all right. I can go retrieve it myself. Wait for me by the front door, will you? I’ll be quick as I can.”

“But-”

“I’ll be fine, Miss Belle, really. Remain with the children,” he insisted, already turning back.

“If you take too long, we _are_ coming to find you,” she called after him.

He retraced his steps in seemingly less time; the climb up those winding stairs now next to nothing, the distance shortened.

Perhaps it was because he’d been this way before, already had familiarity now. Or, perhaps because he moved with single-minded determination of reaching a goal.

Alone he stood in the attic, by sight a relatively unremarkable space – somewhat cluttered but silent, still.

But there was lingering tension in the air he couldn’t shake. He was acutely conscious of the candle in his grasp; cold sweat gathering beneath fabric of his glove making it adhere to every finger. His heart was in his throat.

He moved until he stood with back against the broad window. The cool spring day’s light illuminated everything out around him, turning the space into sharp contrast of pale and dark that practically rendered it an ink-pen etching.

He watched, but nothing moved. There was not a motion, not a sound.

Finally, he was compelled to clear his throat.

“If there is something…someone, there…if you can hear me,” his voice carried though he didn’t speak above murmur: “I know that you are here. I know what I saw.”

He hesitated – finding courage to continue only through his need to _know_ , for certain.

“You may appear to me, if you are…willing.”

At first, nothing. Then there was a creak in the floorboards. Then another.

Spaced apart too perfectly to sound like anything but footsteps – headed his direction.

There was no mist, no flash of light, no unearthly fade of shadow. One moment there was nothing and the next there it was again: Lady Henderson’s ghost.

Scrooge inhaled sharply. He felt such indescribable surfeit of emotion the corner of his eyes stung.

She gazed his direction but didn’t appear to look at him; rather, through – almost as if _he_ was the specter. She turned, kept walking until she stood at the window, looking out, made even paler a visage by the beams of light streaming around her outline.

Her deep ivory dress was trimmed with lace, outdated style hanging from her frame – she must’ve lost weight as she aged, fading past her prime. Her hair was piled atop her head elaborately as if she expected to leave for a ball any moment; her clasped hands adorned with rings that seemed too heavy for her wizened fingers. Her shoulders hunched slightly, once-elegant neck drooping forward.

Her eyes were wide, focused – a startling blue that made her gaze more piercing. Yet that gaze seemed to fixate on nothing at all.

She looked solid, _real_ , as if she was any person – as if she was breathing still. If he reached out a hand, he would connect with something he could feel. He felt certain she must look exactly as she did in life. Marley and his sister had been the same.

But also as with them, there was that unshakable sense of… _wrongness_ – of the otherworldly. Some intrinsic sensitivity could tell that this was nothing living, nothing mortal.

 _So,_ he thought slowly to himself, _there it is: confirmation._

He could still see spirits. And, more than that, he could see spirits around him otherwise invisible to most.

His experience had changed him in another way; left him with some permanent awareness of what was beyond that boundary between life and death, mundane and other, he had been repeatedly dragged across.

It was a grim, even quietly horrifying, realization. His existence had become haunted enough as it was by his own ugly mistakes. He would never forget the spirits he’d _already_ seen; the last thing he wanted was to keep seeing more for the rest of his life.

Was he now responsible for the well-being of the restless dead, as well as the living? How many burdens was he expected to bear, before the weight crushed him flat?

Gloomily he tried to collect his thoughts, drifting a reluctant half-step closer to the ghost.

“In life you were Lady Henderson, I know that,” he addressed her. “You have been gone for a few years – I don’t know if you realize. What must the passage of time feel like, to one no longer encumbered by most of its markers?”

He endeavored to meet her disconcerting gaze.

“I do not know what keeps you bound to this world, rather than at rest…at peace. But, if there’s anything I can do to help you, please: enlighten me.”

She stood slightly straighter at mention of her name. Other than that, no reaction. She didn’t speak or glance his way.

He wondered if the mental instability that plagued her last years lingered after death. Good lord, he hoped not – what an unfair torment for anyone, no matter their actions in life. To remain mad for all eternity, forever afraid and confused.

Tilting his head, he examined her profile. Her lips pressed together thinly, her face wrinkled in a type of permanent unhappiness. If there was one thing he recognized from intimate familiarity, it was the marks left by decades of frowning.

His concern was building the longer he looked. The same with any living person he saw, desire to help coming not so much from an abundance of goodwill as a feeling he simply _could not_ turn his back on one in need without trying to do something.

It dawned on him there was that same air of sadness about her as he’d felt lingering within the house.

The sense of time frozen unnaturally – unhealthily, as the world moved on. Not out of fondness so much as…stubbornness, unwillingness to change.

“Yes,” he found himself saying, “I think I understand.”

Lady Henderson’s ghost bore no fetters. It was no force of fate or otherworldly judgment that kept her here, denied her the sleep of the grave.

It was only herself.

“You _do_ remain, in your case, in death as you were in life – not insane, but…clinging. To this place, these worldly goods, and what they symbolized to you. You worked to make something and now it has trapped you, because you can’t bring yourself to let go of it.”

She could have aged gracefully, adapted with the times; become something and someone new. Perhaps she never would’ve held center of attention again but she could have looked back on the memories with fondness, treasured them as part of the past.

But she had not done so, because her pride wouldn’t allow it. The years passed and she’d kept everything preserved around her as her tomb, stifled in dust and silence.

And now here she was, stuck in memory still. Looking out the window, no doubt pining over times gone by. Even in death refusing to let go of worthless symbols of what’d slipped through her fingers.

He went on, “You had an image of the world as it was…a philosophy. You wouldn’t change it, no matter how many times it was challenged.” His gaze dropped. “I know, precisely, what that’s like.”

He hadn’t lived the high-flying life of a Lady Henderson – his bad choices were an entirely different sort. But he’d also distanced himself from the world. He’d pushed it away, when it wouldn’t conform to his will; had simply ignored what he didn’t like as much as possible.

And no one had been punished by that so much as himself. He too had curated an isolated, frozen existence.

Life, a real breathing life, meant _change_. To be fully alive meant accepting that things were always changing – and that eventually, things would end.

He lifted his eyes and looked back at the ghost.

“I hope that you can hear me, madam. More than that, I hope that you are listening. But I see there is nothing I can do to help you. You are here because you desire to be, failing to realize it does you no good. You should let go and accept what has become of you. But the only one that can create that change within you, within your desires…is yourself.”

He stepped backward, somberly shaking his head.

“I hope some day you can come to that understanding and move on from this place, and find peace.”

Leaving the window he went to retrieve his hat from where he’d left it.

When he glanced back, the ghost was gone. But he thought he could still feel her, regrets and old vanity hanging in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam.

The dead, it seemed, were not his responsibility. This ability to see them was merely another facet of his altered self – a thing to accept, for better or worse.

Scrooge sighed quietly. He blew out his candle, never minding the darkness of the staircase as he went down to reunite with the others.

Even if it was relief to not think he’d be trekking across London banishing restless spirits, he wasn’t fully comforted. These ghosts might not want anything from him but he still had to be _aware_ of them. Hadn’t the once been enough? But no, judgement had left him with a permanent curse, no matter how mild by comparison.

He would never be able to ignore the reality of what most would find impossible, ever again. His life would never be normal.

It was hard not to find that unfair. He had learned his lesson, but it would have been nice if from time to time he could’ve pretended it hadn’t come from spirits.

Sullen resignation clouded his mood awhile after they left the house. It was a good thing Belle was there and the children remained lively, the lot so distracting among themselves they didn’t even notice he barely paid attention and said little.

But they went to dine, having successfully found a cookshop that didn’t mind serving a group of six comprised mostly of those not yet out of the schoolroom. After sitting someplace comfortable away from the elements, having something warm to drink and some bread to nibble on, he already started feeling better.

By the time Ricky was asking about dessert before their meal even arrived and Peter was hinting he’d like to order liquor, he was able to chide one and refuse the other not at all harshly, if firmly.

As their party verbally revisited the day with enthusiasm, it became easy to mull on everything besides the ghost in the attic. Charlotte told her great-uncle about all the lovely furniture and pretty pictures from the floor he had missed out on, as he fixed the ribbon in her hair that’d gone astray with absent fondness. The boys, to probably everyone’s relief, had moved on from scaring each other silly to talking about other things. They kept hankering after him to tell more about where he’d learned his meager lock-picking skills. Naturally he rebuffed them.

He did however regale the group with the time poor Marley attempted teaching him how to do a slight of hand trick with a coin. He even managed to tell it a way that got across some of how funny it was.

They were finishing their meal when Belle teasingly said to Mathilde she should try sketching him how he’d looked in the turban – and Mathilde responded in similar fashion when she said that she just might.

A carriage was summoned, they bundled in and the children were deposited home, eager to tell stories of afternoon’s adventure to their father who would no doubt just as eagerly listen.

Scrooge offered to pay the driver to take Belle home, but she declined politely. She was as used to long walks through the city as he was.

So they said their goodbyes there on the pavement, then parted.

The seasons _had_ changed, even if the temperature was sometimes reluctant to follow suit – it remained light outside for hours still; he could sit up for awhile and get some work done.

He scratched away over papers in his study until the clock struck nine. Then he changed into his nightclothes, took his tonic and went to bed.

He’d managed over the course of the evening to put Lady Henderson’s ghost, everything it signified, out of his mind completely.

It was only upon waking next morning, trying to scour the cobwebs away, recollecting previous day’s events that it came back to him.

But he could see through the curtains it was going to be another bright spring day. He had tea and toast, and Erasmus nestled under blankets beside him, loudly purring.

He’d made a pledge to focus on the future, on things he could still actually change. So what if he was occasionally haunted in matters both metaphorical and literal?

He should do his best to ignore the ghosts, as he tried to ignore the ghosts of his own past. Difficult as it might be it was the only thing he _could_ do, really.

What was dead and gone, Ebenezer Scrooge reminded himself, was over and done with – the future was for the living, and for life.


	11. The Hope of Being Beyond the Chance

_"It matters little," she said, softly. "To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve."_

_"What Idol has displaced you?" he rejoined._

_"A golden one."_

_"This is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said. "There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!"_

_"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?" - Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits_

Spring was full upon now, though that didn’t always feel like something to be celebrated. The meeting-point of seasons if not unpleasant as harsh winter, still uncomfortable - nip in the wind necessitating coats, boots and hats still, constant sunshine beating down to over-warm beneath such layers.

Worse, snow and ice melted beneath spring rains and fogs, making the streets ungodly muddy.

With carts and horses, stray cats and dogs, livestock driven in to graze at the parks and be sold at market, unwashed beggars living outside, the refuse of so many households, and dirt of travel from so many wheels entering the city, so many feet walking it - the cobbled roads were not clean. Residents watched their step, simultaneously endeavoring not to look at what they had to step around too closely.

But the mud of springtime - puddling, stinking, sticking - made it so much worse.

Ebenezer Scrooge never owned a carriage, though he could’ve afforded one. He preferred to walk. The muddiest springtime was the only thing to test his reserve – it was tempting to rent one for _those_ mornings.

Stubbornness prevailed. If he gave in about this, he might give in other times and then where would it end?

Still, now that every trip involved meanderings and side-stepping, he was glad he’d made his mind up to work from home more often.

Enough was packed the old space resembled a storefront more than an office. The day when the official address of Scrooge and Marley would be defunct was coming within sight.

Though he avoided looking too closely at that, as he did the refuse of the street.

It was later than usual as he trekked the blocks. He’d expected less traffic since morning deliveries and errands would be over; to disgruntled disappointment it seemed crowded as ever.

As he waited for yet another cart to pass, he glanced across the street.

And instantly had a startled moment where he doubted his own eyes, when he saw Fred’s wife strolling along in conversation with Mr. Hooper.

Emilia said she knew the gentleman through charity work. Still, to see them at same time felt an unanticipated assault on his composure.

He was also somewhat surprised his niece-by-marriage was speaking to a businessman alone. He hadn’t imagined her _that_ outgoing.

Mulling over the oddity, he’d kept staring their direction – inevitably he was noticed.

Hooper looked as displeased to see Scrooge as he’d felt to see him. Emilia was calmly unreadable.

“Hello there, Mr. Hooper – Emilia. Good day,” he called, trying not to sound awkward.

“Good morning, Mr. Scrooge,” she returned with cool poise that’d become familiar these past months.

Hooper glanced sideways, surprised they knew each other. Rather than be so impolite to ask outright, he merely tipped hat with a gruff frown.

“Good day to you. Taking an early teatime?”

“Ah, no; today is a half-day, one I intend to remain home for. I’m only stopping by my office to pick up a few papers.”

“If you’re traveling that way, you shouldn’t remain on that side of the street,” Emilia informed him. “There’s practically a sinkhole. If you tried walking through, you’d get filthy.”

“Oh,” he glanced apprehensively, trying to peer through the crowds; “oh, I see…”

“You should come over and join us,” she continued, visibly astonishing Hooper. “We were also going in that direction.”

That wasn’t at all appealing. But what could he do? It was presented as a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

Despite his reluctance, he waited for a lull in traffic then hurried his way across.

“There,” Emilia stated once he’d joined them – the last thing he’d expected was her seeking out his company, but her manner appeared perfectly mild. “I’m sure you don’t mind accompanying us – Mr. Hooper and I were discussing the particulars of some funds to be distributed to one of our mutual causes.”

“I see – yes, I had thought it must be something of the sort.”

“Forgive me,” Hooper cut in, “but I was unaware the two of you had ah, a prior acquaintance…”

“I must not have ever mentioned it,” Emilia said so evenly one doubted that lapse had been inadvertent. “We are relatives through marriage. Mr. Scrooge is uncle to my husband, Fred. You do remember my husband?”

Hooper stared; evidently, he _did_ remember her husband. “You’re related to -- Mr. Clarkson is _your_ nephew?”

Emilia resumed walking; as if she were a military commander in a leghorn bonnet and a muff, both men had unthinkingly fallen into step alongside her. As Scrooge had taken the inside edge by chance, the width of the pavement forced Hooper to trail a few steps back, bending towards them.

“Yes, my only nephew – I will save us any stilted obfuscation by admitting we’ve been estranged some years.” He glanced at Hooper, attempting flippant honesty, “I’m certain you can guess by whose fault.”

Hooper was only capable of wide-eyed bemusement.

But it could be understood how anyone familiar with Fred’s personality would struggle to see him as a blood relation to Scrooge.

“If you’d ever met my late sister, perhaps the connection would be more obvious,” he offered. “Fred resembles her somewhat in temperament. Though he takes highly after his father in looks.”

“I must disagree,” Emilia said. “I have seen likenesses of both Fred’s parents, ones I was told are accurate. He has his father’s coloring. But a good deal of his mother is there in the shape of his features.”

“You’ve had far more opportunity to study Fred’s features than I,” he responded wryly, “so if you insist, then I must concede to your expertise.”

“I take it you were not around much of Fred’s childhood, either,” Hooper gathered.

“No, I – my sister and I were…also estranged; more or less. We did still speak, but rarely. I’m sorry to say it was for no good reason.”

There was no point defending himself to Hooper. But where once he would’ve been blunt, stuck to facts, the more he embraced his emotions the harder it was sometimes to keep words from drifting out.

“We were close, when we were young. As the elder sibling I suppose she styled herself my protector. But I felt she tried to continue being so after I was grown to manhood…and I resented it.” He paused. “She died more than a decade ago. Once she was gone there seemed…little reason, to remain in touch with her family.”

He’d never had much interest in Lottie’s husband – a man as empty-headed as Lottie was clever; that he’d seemed aware and quite fine with it no consolation.

Even with the distance growing between him and his sister, he’d felt resentment towards these others that held a share of her affections. Especially because she was so _wasted_ on life of marriage and motherhood; she could have fought to be much more.

That her health had been visibly ruined by years of trying to have children and eventually carrying Fred, hurrying her to her grave – that certainly hadn’t helped, either.

“I’m sorry,” Hooper said - cutting through his pensiveness with quiet but genuine sympathy.

Off Scrooge’s startled glance, the other man gave a humorless smile.

“When I was ten years old, my older brother joined the Navy. The night before he shipped out, he and I had some row. I don’t even remember what about; probably nothing important. The type of things brothers quarrel over. But my words to him were furious and hurtful…and that was the last I ever spoke to him.” He met Scrooge’s gaze. “His very first voyage, he was lost at sea.”

For a beat Scrooge was speechless at this unexpected empathy.

“I am so sorry,” he murmured at length. “You were close?”

“Close enough I regret not having had more time with him,” Hooper replied, solemnly composed. “Close enough, that I wish we hadn’t parted on such a note.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He’d no idea what his last words to Lottie had been – he couldn’t decide whether that was worse.

“I have often felt it a shame I wasn’t able to meet either of my husband’s parents,” Emilia rejoined the conversation with offhanded aplomb. “From his stories, they were good people.”

“They certainly wouldn’t have been said to be the opposite. My sister would have liked you, I think.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scrooge – as it’s clear you thought highly of her, that’s kind of you to say.”

Her tone wasn’t effusive, but it was content and polite; of course, too much to ask she would refer to him familiarly.

It was an odd experience for him, walking along with two people he’d assumed would always regard him as an enemy. True, common courtesy was hardly friendship – but it was vastly more than he’d have imagined only months ago.

He’d thought he didn’t care if he had their respect. He was used to not caring if he had anyone’s.

But he was startled to feel a hint of satisfaction. As if there’d been a yearning he wasn’t aware of.

This was dangerous territory: Hooper was one thing, Emilia quite another. Week after week of visits and all he’d earned was her tolerance. A shame, for he’d grown very fond of the rest of the family. But her disapproval lingered - as if she saw right through him, cutting to his faults.

If he felt sad frustration at times, he tried resigning to it. To hope he’d ever gain more from her would no doubt only invite greater disappointment.

“Before I forget, I should express my gratitude for your taking the children out the other day,” she remarked.

“That’s hardly necessary,” he replied. “And it can wait until Thursday’s dinner, in any case.”

“Not at all. I am speaking to you now and so it should be said.”

“Well, you’re welcome. It was my pleasure. I was glad they enjoyed themselves.”

“They did. And they were returned to me fed, dry, relatively clean, mentally stimulated but physically tired. At times this is all that a mother of four children could desire.”

“Yes, I can imagine.”

Seamlessly she went, “Tell me, what did you make of the house itself? Was it in good condition?”

“Yes. One might say remarkably so, considering I understand it’s spent a few years unoccupied. Why do you ask?”

She indicated Hooper. “Our broader circle of organizations has taken a slight interest.”

“Oh, you’re talking about the old Henderson mansion.” Hooper caught on. “Yes; there’s been talk of seeing if there could be a collection to purchase it for conversion into a useful facility. A school for the underprivileged, perhaps.”

“Or a place for training young women without other resources, or a foundling hospital,” Emilia added.

“There’s been talk, but little conclusion; perhaps you can tell,” Hooper admitted.

“It would appear so.” He frowned hesitantly. “If I might be permitted to give input, I don’t see any of those goals being accomplished without difficulty. The layout would require major alteration before it could be put to any such purpose. Even to purchase the building itself would be very expensive. And the neighborhood – it’s not particularly suited.”

“Too residential,” Hooper said archly, “or too upper-class?”

“You know you’d receive heavy resistance from those who live there.”

“Yes, it’s true.” Hooper scowled. “Heaven forbid those with means be forced within any proximity to the impoverished.”

“These concerns have been already brought up in the ongoing conversation,” Emilia stated. “As a result, it’s likely the matter will be dropped. With no concrete hopes pinned to it, it could hardly be considered a loss.”

“It seems unlikely it will be purchased as a private residence either.” From Hooper’s grumble, he didn’t entirely agree with Emilia. “Even the peers don’t want something that ostentatious for a city address. Odds are it’ll be bought for the land – property torn down to build something completely different.”

Scrooge thought of what he’d witnessed in the attic.

“Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad,” he quietly observed. “The past consigned to dust, creating opening to move forward.”

With that subject finished, the conversation drifted back to where it’d been before his joining them.

Emilia briskly mentioned one association, one established fund after another. Hooper endeavored to occasionally get a word in as she pressed on points of discontentment, changes she was interested in.

Judging by Hooper’s resigned expression, this was a typical interaction.

They didn’t seem interested in input from him; perhaps that was for the best. Scrooge watched the exchange sidelong, silent.

Women even of Emilia’s demeanor usually limited their sphere of command to home and family - not her, from what he was witnessing. Upon reflection, this didn’t exactly surprise him.

Mildly amusing as it was to watch, he made note of further reason to tiptoe warily around her displeasure.

He felt tension ebb from his body upon reaching the corner that the pair was obliged to turn in order to reach their destination. They bid him goodbye, separating from his company.

Scrooge glanced back - watched as they resumed speaking heatedly, as if there’d been no pause.

He went the rest of the way to his office, retrieved what he required, and returned home again without meeting anyone else; thankfully. The walk was trying enough - if he had to put up with more unprepared socialization, he’d be out of strength.

Even again in the sanctity of his private space, he wouldn’t have much time to relax. He went looking for his maid.

“Miss Jenny, you do recall my telling you that today I would have a visitor?”

“Aye sir, I do.”

“Very good then. Please have a pot of tea prepared at one o’clock.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Other than that nothing will be required of you. This is a matter of business, not a social call. Simply do your best to stay out of the way as you finish your duties this afternoon.”

“Aye, sir.”

He changed his clothes, straightened the paperwork in his study, and as it turned out finished just in time. At two minutes before twelve came the knock at the door he anticipated.

“I’ll get it myself, Miss Jenny,” he called - not certain where she was, but his voice would echo to reach her.

He went to the front door, opened it. As expected Belle was waiting.

“Afternoon, Mr. Ebenezer,” she greeted him cheerily.

“A good afternoon to you also. I see you had no trouble finding the address?”

“Not at all. Though I’ve never been near this neighborhood before to do much besides sightsee. You’ve a lovely knocker,” she remarked, pointing.

“Ah - thank you. I just had it replaced, beginning of this year.”

Another lion, burnished gold rather than plain stone grey, mouth open beneath the ring with teeth bared and tongue lolling. If the previous had a grimacing expression by comparison this looked proud, almost jocular.

“Please, come inside.”

He moved back, opening the door further; she happily acted on the invitation.

“Keep your things with you for now, if you don’t mind,” he fussed, unable to restrain himself. There was no designated place by the door for any outdoor wear besides his own.

Belle paused in unfastening her cloak. “All right.”

This was going to be very different for them both, though she seemingly felt none of that faint apprehension he was fighting. But she’d demonstrated time and again she was adaptable.

He of course was not. Despite the ease typically found within her company, there were many factors in this to bait his anxiety.

Still, he was to work fully from home eventually and she was his assistant. Logic dictated at some point she’d come into his house. No reason to put it off; save irrational discomfiture, which he was trying not to cater to.

“I figured we would begin today lightly. I have some papers to organize. I’m not fully sure how things will go, I admit; what it will be like once this becomes permanent. The set-up may require some...adjustments.”

“Well, we can work it out as we go. Sort any troubles as they’re discovered.”

“Yes. I’ll show you the study...there’ll be enough time to get started before tea. Follow me.”

Belle craned her neck, looking around and up as the scope of his rooms became visible.

“I must say, this is quite the palace!”

“I had hoped you wouldn’t think so, after visiting the Henderson estate,” he half-joked.

“Oh sure. By _that_ comparison it’s positively modest. But in any other regard, it’s something else entirely. The whole building is yours?”

“Yes. It’s...far, far more than I need,” he said hesitatingly, “but an aristocratic family wallowing in genteel poverty had to dispose of it, rapidly, in order to clear some debts - and I couldn’t resist the opportunity of picking it up as an impressive bargain.”

He would’ve bragged this, once. Now he felt sheepish.

Two or even three middle-class families could probably make do with the space his house covered, and he knew Belle had a rented room she split with a friend. With that in mind her standing inside his home emphasized it as another symbol of the wealth he’d grasped, just because he could.

He fidgeted, wary of her further observations.

“Oh, my!” Belle exclaimed as she stared. “What have we here!”

He turned around to find the subject of her attention. “That is Erasmus. I know I’ve spoken of him to you before.”

“Yes, and you’ve always described him as a _cat_.” She practically crooned, “But why, look at him - he’s still only a baby!”

“I suppose.” The kitten had grown so, he’d stopped thinking of it as one.

Eyes shifting between green and grey, Erasmus’ fur remained pure white. Said fur had grown longer, face becoming leonine, tail thick enough it might be used for dusting.

Sitting in a doorway the cat tilted head up, watching Belle’s approach without blinking.

“Hello there…” She patted delicately. “What a handsome lad. You’re the _real_ master of this house, aren’t you?”

Erasmus sauntered off, tail in the air, beckoning - as if he understood and agreed with her words.

Belle followed, at first.

Her face grew puzzled when she found herself in a very empty chamber. She peered around the corner, beholding an equally empty hall.

Her footsteps slowed as she began to take in...how little there was to take in.

She looked back at Scrooge.

Sheepishness growing he smiled thinly, offering a shrug with his hands.

“Yes, go on,” he practically sighed. “Speak your mind.”

“If it were anyone else, I might be tempted to ask if there’d been a fire.” Her head turned, emptiness so vast it required lengthy examination. “Or a robbery.”

“You know I dislike clutter,” he went, half-hearted.

“You’ve managed to avoid _that_ with efficiency. How long have you lived here?”

He avoided her eyes. “Oh, it’s been...more than ten years.”

Like in so many things, he hadn’t cared; it’d never fully hit him how tomb-like it’d be to anyone of normal sentiment.

The house where Fred’s family lived, done up in latest fashion, was crammed with furnishings and decoration, every bit of space utilized. Whereas Scrooge had collected no mementos, curated no warmth or coziness; his living space beyond spartan.

Belle’s eyes grew wider, quietly aghast.

“I have what I need,” he protested, moved to some defensiveness. “A desk, cupboards, bookcases, a bed and chair by the fire-”

“A place for anyone else to sit?” she cut in. “Am I the only visitor you’ve ever had?”

“No. Marley would come here sometimes after work, if we wanted to continue a conversation. And a few times my solicitor has stopped by…” He trailed off, surrendering. “If you haven’t been the _only_ visitor, the list is likely no more than a half dozen.”

“Oh well, I’m flattered then,” she went stiffly. “Forgive me, Mr. Ebenezer - but this is absurd. You can’t live this way.”

“As a factual matter, you will find that I can and I have,” he retorted with no strength to it.

“I suppose what I mean then is you _shouldn’t_. You’ve hardly any furniture. Not even a picture hanging on the wall. Are you going to tell me that you find this comfortable?”

He hadn’t cared about being comfortable. Having things because they were nice, because they might give him pleasure, had never been strong enough argument against abhorrence to spending. Cold and darkness were cheap.

His home reflected a lifetime spent in numb, spiteful unhappiness. If that gave him no joy now, he still hadn’t seen the point in doing anything about it.

“I’m used to it,” he concluded. As he glanced around, in the stillness the clocks loudly ticked. “I can’t picture it being any other way.”

“Would you like to try?” Belle offered, nearly pleading.

“I didn’t invite you here to discuss my furnishings.” He wasn’t wholly surprised this was happening, but he’d held the vague hope she’d let it pass.

“I know, but...it’ll only take a moment.”

She stepped closer. Every tap of her heels echoed against the floors.

As if there was a conspiracy now for everything to taunt him with how empty his rooms were.

“I’m no expert, but my thinking is when one has their own place to live, if there’s any choice in the matter, the way it looks it should make...some type of statement. It should be a place you want to spend time in, a place that makes people feel welcome.” She hesitated. “This, this looks…”

“What?” he pressed.

“ _Sad_ ,” she exclaimed, startling away his defensiveness. “I’m sorry, the word that comes to mind is ‘sad’. I picture you sitting in this dreariness, that this is what you come home to in the evenings...why it’s more than I can bear.”

“Oh now, really.” Folding his arms, he avoided her eyes again. “There’s no need to be dramatic.”

But he was embarrassed to think that could be true: the way he lived might actually move people to pity.

He’d thought being under a cloud of disdain felt bad enough. But he’d never reckoned on _pity_.

“I know that change throws you off-balance, and that you dislike spending money on yourself,” Belle went softly, “but you keep talking about making improvements, in your life - does this really seem a habit worth keeping?”

“I don’t know what the alternative would accomplish.”

“You don’t think having a cheerier home, with something beside walls to look at, might make you a bit happier?” He could see her dubiousness from the corner of his eye.

Her words nagged at him, but his own happiness wasn’t persuasive reason enough.

She switched tactics. “Well, what if you ever wanted to have your nephew over? Or his children? This could be a wonderful spot for them to play...you’ve a lawn, for one thing, which I’m sure they don’t.”

The notion of children’s laughter ringing in his rooms, rather than clocks ticking or echoing footsteps - he remembered those images of a family that never was.

Belle sensed his shifting reluctance. “You hardly have to become a whirligig of social activity. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a visitor or two, sometimes, if the place was fit for it? Invite a friend for dinner, maybe?”

He turned back toward her, arms still lightly folded. “Maybe,” he conceded.

She beamed. “That’s the spirit! Why don’t you show me the rest. I can help get ideas going for what you’d like to do.”

“Miss Belle-”

“Only until teatime. I promise.”

Relinquishing an hour for the subject would be less irritating than if it kept coming back during the afternoon. He could accept the compromise.

“Fine, if you insist,” he said, not matching her enthusiasm.

They made their way through the rooms in slow circle, taking them one at a time.

Scrooge maintained difficulty finding interest. Decorating was the epitome of impractical common activities he’d never attempted, thus knew absolutely nothing about. His mood hovered somewhere between annoyance and bemusement.

With his lack of imagination, he struggled to ‘visualize’ anything other than what he saw before him.

And he simply wasn’t sure what he _liked_. Color, shape, theme - as he rarely operated by purely superficial standards, he’d a hard time coming up with things off the top of his head.

But Belle had experience dealing with him. He sullenly said _‘no’_ or ‘ _I don’t know’_ or _‘I’m not sure’_ , and she kept patiently prompting with questions.

She’d described herself as ‘no expert’ on the subject. Rather than providing strong ideas of her own, she left things open-ended, focusing on practical details.

If this area was to stay a dining room the table should be longer, and it needed better source of light. That space would be good for a parlor, in which case a settee would be required. This corner desperately needed a painting or even a statuette to break the monotony. And so on.

He still wasn’t eager about the whole thing. The longer he was forced to think however, it began at least to seem...less painful, as a prospect.

“This room,” Belle was saying; “Oh, you desperately need new curtains, I think. And in a better color than that drab, faded olive.”

“I reserve judgement on the color. But yes, I do agree: the curtains themselves could do with a change.”

“And over here, on this wall…” She gestured, walking toward it. “It needs _something_. Maybe a nice oil painting?”

“Of what?”

“Oh, almost anything! Perhaps not a still life, though I might be saying that because I’m never really fond of them...hard to feel anything gazing at a bowl of fruit. A landscape? Something with a pond, or a forest, or a castle? Or, on the other hand - maybe a solid, simple portrait.”

“A portrait of whom?”

“Why, the owner in residence, of course!”

He smirked thinly. “I don’t think so.”

“No? Not to your style? Some men can’t get enough of the sight of themselves.”

“Not this one.” He closed distance between them, idly. “If the intent is to make my home appear more welcoming, to ‘beautify’ it, the last thing that’s wanted is this face hanging on the wall.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come now, Miss Belle - no need for politeness. I know you’ve a working set of eyes.”

Her cheekiness had faded entirely. For a beat she stared at him, head cocked.

“...Are you saying what I think you are?” she demanded at last.

His mouth twitched with odd humor; not sure what to make of her reaction.

“The last time any implication was made as to my being attractive was when I was much younger - and young men are always attractive to some degree, by the very nature of that youth.”

This was an odd thing to discuss so candidly - for most people. It wouldn’t be the oddest thing he’d ever observed, and it wouldn’t be the strangest conversation _they_ had ever had either.

“Perhaps there was a time some might have found me notable; dark-haired, clear-eyed, on taller side in height...but that time has long faded.”

Stated factually, without drop of self-pity. He never cared for such things; he barely paid attention to them. He mostly gauged how a person’s looks might be judged by reactions he noticed in others.

He knew how people reacted to _him_. They didn’t compliment him. On rare occasion they did, even backhandedly, it was on his intelligence. Never his looks. So, he’d drawn understandable conclusion from that.

“You’re still tall.” Belle sounded like she wasn’t certain _what_ to say. “Though to me, about anybody is.”

“Yes, but -- why are you looking at me like that?” He frowned perplexedly. “I never said that I thought I was hideous. Only that my face isn’t one you’d want to see displayed somewhere, daily. It’s not... _lovable_. I know what I look like.”

“Do you?”

The question seemed rhetorical. She bit her lip, pensive.

“I want to show you something,” she went at length. “Will you just...will you play along with me, for a moment? Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“I want you to close your eyes.”

“...Why?” He didn’t hide his wary suspicion.

“Oh, so I can brain you over the head and make off with as much as I can carry on my back,” she quipped, deadpan. “Come on! Please? I just need you to close your eyes. Trust me.”

“Oh...all right,” he grumbled.

The sooner he went along with this, the sooner he’d find out what in the world she was up to. He did as she asked.

“Have you got them closed tightly? No peeking.”

She waved hand before his face, testing; he could feel the displaced air. He squinted with effort of keeping his eyes shut.

“Good. Now then...hold still, and follow my lead.” She acted with startling quickness.

She managed to spin him by pushing him at the shoulder; with no prepared resistance he moved without thinking, enough so he was disoriented.

Before he could look in alarm she was standing behind him, hands over his eyes, herding him forward by walking.

“Wh-what are you doing? Why are you…?”

“It’s all right, relax. We aren’t going very far.”

She must have been practically on tiptoe. He could feel her front pressed to his back, surprisingly warm. Though she was hardly a physical threat to him, his pulse quickened with uncertainty.

“Miss Belle, I...I don’t think-”

“Shh, it’s all right,” she repeated. She stopped walking. “Here we go. Just relax, and listen to the sound of my voice. Can you do that?”

“A-all right,” he mumbled, too bewildered to be annoyed over her ordering him about.

He could tell she was smiling calmly. “I want to think about a time you were happy, _really_ happy.”

“Are you planning on being here very long?” he went with feeble snideness.

“Hush now. I’m serious. Think back and find a happy memory. Doesn’t matter what. But really go back into it.” She was using the same clear tone as when she told stories. “Remember what you were doing. Lose yourself in the way that it felt.”

He was effectively at her mercy, unless he pushed her off him; that seemed too much.

So he did as she told him, and he thought.

He thought about his exhausted joy by end of his ordeal on Christmas Day. He thought about Fred’s pleased smiles. He thought about Charlotte running to him for a hug, Peter’s bold ideas and Ricky’s unflagging enthusiasm, Mathilde’s shy but genuine happiness when at last coaxed out of her shell.

He thought about watching people in the street on New Year’s Eve. He thought about Erasmus jumping into his lap when he sat by the fire, kneading before curling into lump of contentment. He thought about the old times with Marley, working side by side in their office, trading retorts back and forth. He thought about a hundred small instances with Belle, sharing food and drink and ideas and jokes.

He thought moment by moment, the way it felt bubbling up inside of him.

“There you are!” Belle proclaimed - whipping her hands away.

She’d brought him to the mirror over his mantelpiece, and what he immediately saw was his reflection. Eyes bright and shining with merriment, grinning with silent laughter, expression crinkled thoroughly in happiness.

He scarcely recognized himself this way. That expression faltered, but its effect was hardly abated.

Stilled in astonishment he stared, hand lifting to touch his cheek. Needing proof what he saw was real.

Wordless, he looked back at Belle. She shrugged.

“It’s a completely different face,” she remarked.

She was right. He didn’t smile when he looked in the mirror - he didn’t picture himself as a man who smiled. He _hadn’t_ been, for years and years. But that wasn’t true anymore.

What she’d shown him - he realized - was the face others saw now, when he was too caught up in what he was doing and feeling to be self-conscious or restrained.

And no, as it turned out, under those circumstances he didn’t look completely unpleasant. He could see something there, that he could…actually understand why people might _like_.

He thought he’d been shown every hidden truth. Yet here it was, peeling back another layer. An aspect of himself he was blind to.

“Remarkable,” he breathed, glancing at his reflection once more.

He shook his head before addressing Belle.

“You are a magician.”

“Nonsense. I only pointed out what was already there.”

Perhaps to her, it was obvious. But what was obvious to _him_ , was he’d have never seen without her aid.

To think they’d crossed paths by chance. It came over him all at once how eminently helpful she’d been to him since. He’d been floundering, good intentions not enough to guide him; he doubted on his own he’d have accomplished as much.

“I am so lucky to have found you,” he said unthinkingly, full of gratitude. “I have no idea where I’d be without your help.”

“What do you mean?” She laughed it off. “If anything, I should be thanking you! You’ve done so much for me. You gave me a job - you changed my life.”

“I…” He faltered, startled.

He hadn’t thought of it that way; he hadn’t planned on it. He’d only done what he could to help, maybe the slightest bit because he’d liked her company.

“I’m the one who’s fortunate to have met you,” Belle concluded in earnest.

Before he could even attempt saying anything else, Jenny appeared.

“I’m sorry for interrupting, sir...miss. But the tea is ready.”

“Oh, what perfect timing. We’d all finished up in here, anyway,” Belle declared. “Now you will think about some of the things we talked over, won’t you? About the house?”

“Yes,” he managed, too overwhelmed to entirely recall what he was agreeing to.

“Very good! Come along then, sir.” She walked off, clearly expecting he would follow. “After all that, I could use with a break.”

He did follow, though not without a last glance into the mirror. At the confused, contemplative man he saw there.

A lost soul, cast upon a rocky shore; trying to find his way with hope, and the occasional helping hand.

Normally the afternoon’s tea-break meant relaxing with conversation, but today they sat in silence. Perhaps Belle assumed he was weary - an hour of analysis over something he’d no interest in was trying in its own right.

She didn’t press him, merely sipped her tea, helped herself to the sandwiches. When their eyes happened to meet, she gave a reassuring smile.

He sat there, lost in thought. Trying to give himself space to absorb things.

At some point, in midst of everything else, it occurred he’d never told the maid to prepare food for them. She’d added the sandwiches and biscuits out of initiative.

After their meal finished, Belle kept her word. She didn’t again mention how his home looked.

He was relieved to be on more familiar ground with work, and didn’t overthink the particulars. The rest of the hours flew by.

“We’ll be back at the office tomorrow,” he decided. “I’m expecting some important letters. After that...well, we’ll play it by ear.”

“That’s fine. Have a good day, Mr. Ebenezer.”

“You too, Miss Belle. Goodnight.”

After she was gone he’d intended to go about his evening routine.

But his eyes kept lifting from whatever he was looking at - drifting to the rooms around him.

Days passed. He was able to sleep, he was able to go to work. Soon as he was home however he couldn’t stop giving his curtains and furniture and lamps and ornaments, what little there was, scrutinizing glances. He was plagued by nagging bits of feeling and thought.

By week’s end, he’d had enough.

When he went to his nephew’s house to dine, Scrooge approached him first chance he got.

“Fred,” he cleared his throat, “I wonder if you’d be willing to assist me in, erm…a certain undertaking?”

Fred was more than happy to come over on Sunday. If he was as appalled by what he saw as Belle had been, he perfectly concealed it.

Instead he poured his energies into walking around, giving serious consideration to factors such as natural lighting and the geometry of architecture. He’d brought some quarterly home magazines with him illustrating the latest commercial trends. He talked practically nonstop.

“I think we might want to extend the committee to include my wife, before making any final choices,” Fred remarked, after pausing to catch his breath. “She’s a good eye for these things.”

Scrooge didn’t look from where he’d been taking intermittent notes in pencil. “I doubt she’d be interested in helping me.” He caught himself; “After all, I know she is otherwise so very busy.”

“Oh, but she always enjoys being asked for her opinion,” Fred stated guilelessly.

“Ah.” Scrooge paused. “All right. So long as it isn’t...interrupting anything, that she feels is more important.”

He privately assumed that would include just about everything.

So one could’ve knocked him over with the proverbial feather, when on Monday he was informed that Emilia had every intention of joining their planned excursion to a gallery that week.

 _Good lord_ , he wondered, _what have I gotten myself into?_

But there was no backing out of it. He wrote up a terse note giving assent to time and place.

As he walked outside towards his front gate, a voice piped up from behind it, “Afternoon, Mr. Scrooge.”

“Hello, Marty,” he replied.

He’d a moment where he almost hadn’t recognized him - now that he could actually see his face.

The boy still had his floppy cap on, but he didn’t have gloves or oversized coat. His muffler draped more loosely, hanging from his shoulders. The shirt that was his topmost layer now had crooked buttons, his trousers had been patched on one knee.

“You remember the way to my nephew’s house, don’t you? This is for him.” Opening the gate, he handed Marty the note.

“Sure I do, sir! Easy,” he declared, taking it with alacrity. “Will I be bringing you back a reply?”

“No, not unless he has something else for me. This is a confirmation of plans.” He added archly, “Oh, and do let him know I’ve already paid you, won’t you?”

“Sure I will, sir - once you have,” said Marty.

His lack of repentance for any past ‘misunderstandings’, where he’d been paid twice over, was marked.

Scrooge shook his head, reaching into his pocket absently as he spoke.

“If you aren’t busy tomorrow, come by in the morning. My maid needs to replenish some supplies and I’ll engage you to help her with the carrying. I’ll let Miss Jenny know to expect you.”

“That’s the name of your _Irish_ then - Jenny?” Marty noted carelessly.

He froze in act of holding a coin out. “What did you say?”

“Your _Irish_ , sir.” Not noticing his reaction Marty reached up, pulling the money from his grasp. The pronunciation - dragging it out mockingly, so it became in effect a slur - was clearly no accident of his lower-class accent. “I know she is one. I been around enough; I’ve heard her talk.”

“Don’t say that,” Scrooge went strongly.

“Don’t say what?”

“You know precisely what I mean. She doesn’t deserve to be spoken of like that. Among other things, it’s not as if she had any control over where she was born. So it’s no reason to earn your contempt.”

“Whatever you say, sir.” He rolled his eyes. “Why you’d employ one of them to be a _maid_ , I dunno - everyone knows they’re dirty sneaks.”

He probably would’ve run off then to undertake his errand. Scrooge shot out a hand, grasped him firmly at the wrist.

He loomed over him, expression severe.

“I am giving you the benefit of consideration that given your age you’ve no real idea what you’re saying, and probably are only repeating what you’ve heard from your elders,” Scrooge went icily, projecting authority that settled over him like a well-worn, somewhat rough cloak. “That said, there are some things that will not be tolerated. Have you ever said anything like that to _her?_ Have you ever been rude to her face?”

“Yessir.” From beneath dirtied blond locks his eyes popped wide, staring up.

“You will apologize. Tomorrow, when you see her. And I do mean a proper apology, not some uncommitted mumblings. I’ve no doubt you can be obsequious when you desire.”

“Ob…” The boy struggled, at a loss. “Ob-see…?”

“Flattering. Falsely complimentary. Telling lies for the sake of being polite,” he defined curtly. “Don’t let her know you’re acting on my instruction, either. As far as she is to be aware, you’re apologizing because you know it was very wrong of you and that you shouldn’t say such things. _Do it_ , or you’ll never get so much as a farthing from me in the future.”

He released his hold. Marty shied back on the pavement.

“How will you know whether or not I’ve done it?” A touch of defiance returned, now he was freed.

Scrooge slammed the gate shut between them, gazing through intently to meet the boy’s eyes.

“I’ll know,” he promised.

He did best to put the matter out of mind entirely, trusting he’d gotten his point across how it was to be handled.

He did however instruct Jenny that her assistant for the shopping trip was only to be paid _afte_ r they returned with everything accomplished. He trusted that’d give Marty ample time to ruminate, should it be required.

“You’re in a curious mood today, Mr. Ebenezer,” Belle remarked that afternoon, as they walked back to the office after tea.

“Oh? Am I?”

“I would think so, yes. You’ve been a touch distracted all morning. And not in the usual way.”

“The ‘usual way’, Miss Belle?” he queried. “What is my ‘usual way’ of being distracted?”

“Well, normally you talk to yourself. When you’re thinking hard about something,” she explained. “So far today though you’ve been mostly stone silent.”

“I’m sorry if you feel as if I’ve been ignoring you,” he said offhandedly.

She laughed. “That’s not it at all. I don’t mind; I know it isn't personal. I’m only curious.”

“I suppose that I've been thinking about this Saturday’s plans with Fred and his wife,” he admitted, dourly. “It’s going to be excruciating. I just know it.”

“It’s a trip to an art gallery, not transportation to Van Diemen’s Land. Best of all you’re not just looking, you’re perusing with purpose. I think it’ll be fun!”

“If you think so, then you’re welcome to join us.”

The invitation was sardonic, and Belle knew it.

“Oh, I’d only be underfoot.” She added frankly, “Besides, sir - you can’t count on me to save you from trying interactions _every_ time.”

“Oh I can’t, can I? Then whatever am I paying you for?”

That dry retort merely drew a titter out of her.

The streets remained in disgraceful condition, so much rubbish and mud obliging them to divert from their usual route. Scrooge didn’t mind, necessarily. The side-streets were narrower, but they were quiet.

He was about to make some comment to Belle when he realized her pace had slowed, as she glanced back at something.

“What are you looking at?”

“Oh...it’s nothing.”

Ignoring her attempt to demur, he followed her gaze. A boutique of some kind - small, but with a sizable window where someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make a display.

“Oh. I see.” He met her eyes. “Would you like to go over and have a look?”

She grinned anxiously. “Technically I’m still at work, aren’t I?”

“A short diversion, I think, won’t hurt our productivity. As your employer I can afford to be indulgent.” He gestured. “If you please.”

“Well - thank you, sir. If you insist,” she conceded brightly.

They went and stood before the window. Since there wasn’t much competition on the pavement they didn’t have to worry about blocking traffic or being jostled.

He clasped hands behind his back, attempting to look only mildly bored. Meanwhile Belle drank in what stood central to the window: a dressmaker’s form draped in elaborate pale pink concoction.

“I’m not wild about the color...I never like pastels. But I do think that style is ravishing.”

She gave a little longing sigh.

“Ooh, what I wouldn’t give to own something like that. Any new dress made for me, really.”

He did a quick calculation. Yes, a custom dress was a bit dear compared to second-hand, or even ready-made, but he knew she was very careful with her money. After months of steady employment surely she’d saved up enough.

He didn’t understand why she spoke as if it was an impossibility.

“Perhaps there’s no way for me to comment without...overreaching,” he carefully cleared his throat; “But why _can’t_ you have a dress made for you? I’d think you’d be able to afford one, as a treat. A sort of reward for all your hard work.”

She frowned, gave a dismissive shake of her head.

“It’s not about the money. It’s something else.”

She turned away and kept walking. After a bemused pause, he went to catch up.

“If it isn’t about the money, then - what is it?”

“Oh, nevermind sir. It’s not worth talking about.”

“No, really. Tell me. I’m curious.”

Her mouth thinned as she chose her words carefully. “It has to do with that subject you get so irritated with me over whenever I’ve brought it up.”

It took him a second. “Your reputation.”

“Yes.” He couldn’t tell if the exasperation he heard creeping in her voice was caused by him, or something else. “Shops such as that, specializing in custom ladies’ wear, they rely on recommendations and word of mouth. And if it got out they were accepting business from someone like me-”

“I can unfortunately understand some high-end modistes being so discerning, but surely not everyone-”

“ _No_ , Mr. Ebenezer,” she cut him off, firm. “It doesn’t even matter if I was willing to pay extra. Any smart businesswoman would know accepting me as a client could mean disaster for her. She’d lose her other customers and her livelihood.”

He was tempted to think she was exaggerating, but he wasn’t quite sure. It was true even a hint of impropriety - or worse, lower-class associations - could have people turning up their noses and running for the hills.

He found himself unwilling, however, to shrug it off as an unfortunate case of things being ‘just the way they were’.

Perhaps after what he’d dealt with from Marty the day before, he was in no mood to hear of yet another of his acquaintances being treated as inherently lesser.

He tried to think of a useful suggestion, musing aloud. “You mention word of mouth. What if you were brought in by another woman, who was already a customer? Someone whose willingness to associate with you implied a...successful rehabilitation?”

She lightly scoffed. “It would have to be someone of perfectly irreproachable character. And frankly - possessing a bit scary a level of determination, to get her will across.”

He was struck by dawning inspiration.

“Miss Belle,” he went slowly; “Actually, maybe it _would_ be a good idea for you to come along on Saturday after all.”

She was startled, growing vaguely suspicious when he wouldn’t explain the reasoning behind the change.

He didn’t want to tell her what he was planning though. In case it didn’t succeed.

Belle eventually acquiesced, as there was no good reason not to. She always enjoyed an outing, and people, and even if she felt he was up to _something_ , he realized – he had her trust.

He let Fred know about the slight change in plans, and that was that.

Saturday morning Belle met Scrooge outside his house. He hailed a carriage to take them downtown.

She’d brought a warm loaf of bread in a kerchief. She unwrapped it in her lap, they split it for breakfast along the way.

Fred and Emilia were already waiting, which didn’t surprise him. For all his lackadaisicalness, he’d noticed Fred was otherwise good with timeliness. And Emilia – well he assumed she was habitually prompt.

“Good morning, Uncle Ebenezer!”

“Good morning, Fred - Emilia.” He indicated his companion. “I know that you remember my assistant, Miss Belle.”

“Yes, of course - wonderful to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you again also, sir. I trust you’ve been well? Think I’d have heard otherwise, but of course it’s only polite to ask.”

“Yes, yes, it’s all been good! Emilia, darling, this is Uncle’s assistant Miss Belle; the one that our brood keeps going on about. Miss Belle - my wife, Mrs. Emilia Clarkson.”

“How do you do.” Belle offered her hand.

Scrooge felt relief, when without hesitation Emilia took it in the light fingertip clasp exchanged by well-bred women.

“I am quite well, thank you.” Emilia said mildly, “It’s nice to at last have a face to the name. My children, as Fred mentioned, seem to have something of a fondness for you.”

“Oh, if so, it’s only mutual,” Belle replied. “They’re lovely children you’ve raised.”

“Thank you.” Emilia was calm, no reproofs or chilly restraint. “You’re very kind.”

“Let’s go inside and get started, shall we?” Fred declared.

When he’d visited his uncle’s home one of Fred’s immediate assessments had been the same as Belle’s - it desperately needed something on the walls, to break up the monotony. Since the project was already overwhelming to the owner, it’d been decided to take that as place to start.

That was the objective today. To try finding some paintings.

The rest of decorating could be done around that; somehow. Scrooge didn’t really understand but was content following a lead in this, for the most part.

Fred was explaining how an object of central focus could be used to ‘inspire’ choices for the rest of a room - something to do with lines and textures.

His animation on the subject ended up more for Belle’s benefit. She listened with attentiveness, asked questions. Scrooge mainly stared into space and let the conversation go on around him, resigned.

“I hope at some point you’ll be giving input into any selection made today, Mr. Scrooge,” said Emilia, noting his silence. “You are the one that will live with it.”

“I will know if I like something, and am certainly capable of making it known when I do not. Don’t expect much from me outside of that.”

“No, of course,” she remarked offhandedly; “It wouldn’t do to expect too much of you.”

He let that pass without retort. If he didn’t enjoy it, he knew better than longing for different treatment.

He did hope that opinionated as she was, Emilia was open-minded enough to not let his association prejudice her against Belle. He didn’t ask if Fred mentioned Belle’s past to her - though he assumed he would have, for their relationship didn’t appear one conducive to secrecy.

But Emilia spoke often of how important she found it to interact directly with the poor. Implying she was a better person than one limited by hierarchy. Surely she couldn’t judge Belle too harshly, without committing obvious hypocrisy?

The four of them slowly paced the gallery, stopping here and there to look at a piece.

Nothing jumped out at him; he was skeptical how the others seemingly expected it. But there were some things that looked...nice; that he could see hanging in one of his rooms, his being able to tolerate, perhaps even enjoy a little.

As they went, there was conversation about the artworks among the group, exchanging comments and opinions. Everyone seemed to be having as good a time as could be anticipated.

“What do you think of this one, Uncle?” Fred stopped before an oil, slipping hands in his pockets. “Think it might do for your home office - a little bit of color.”

“I do like the _colors_ ,” Scrooge offered reluctantly. “Darker, but...evocative. I really don’t feel much inclined to displaying a biblical scene, however.”

“Well,” Fred chuckled, “it’s a classical theme, you do realize. It’s not an endorsement; it doesn’t necessarily have to say something about you, that you own it.”

“If I’ve absorbed even a fraction of what you’ve been saying, it’s that every decorative choice says something to that effect,” he replied, dry.

“There was a work we went past back in the other direction, that I would like a second look at,” Emilia announced. “You should join me, Miss Belle. I am curious as to your opinion on it. The others can remain here and we’ll see if Fred has any luck persuading his uncle about this one.”

Scrooge divined she was trying to get Belle alone so she could examine her, woman to woman.

Belle’s eyes widened slightly, uncertain and maybe alarmed, as she’d similar realization. But this was exactly what he’d been hoping for - discretely as he could he made a shooing motion, as he held her gaze.

She frowned in response, but nodded to Emilia. “Yes, all right. Let’s go.”

Fred naturally didn’t notice a thing, still looking up at the painting, head thoughtfully tilted.

“Really, Fred,” Scrooge went on, lowering voice for discretion, “I’m not having that in my home. It’s a lovely painting but I can’t separate that from what it portrays, and I’d be compelled to frown at it daily. You know my feelings on such matters.”

“Is it intellectual disdain that makes you irreverent of faith and religion, Uncle; or is it something more personal?” His voice was also quiet, he was even smiling as he said it.

But it was an incredibly serious question; for him to ask in an easy-sounding manner stunned his uncle to speechlessness.

“You don’t...have to answer,” Fred said, brow creasing after silence began to stretch. “I’m only...I was curious. I’ve always been curious, about that.”

“I…” He wasn’t sure he even knew an answer. He’d never bothered thinking about it. “I would’ve said it had to do with intellectualism, with reason, once - but I find I’m no longer certain that’s truly it.”

Gaze dropping, he swallowed.

“You told me that your mother mentioned that I suffer from...an old pain.” His voice was stilted. “All I will say is that it happened to me when I was very young; around the age of your younger children.”

He grew even quieter.

“And I found the notion of...kind fate, of divinity, far harder to accept after that.”

Fred allowed a somber moment of reflection as that sank in.

“I see. I’m very sorry, Uncle,” he said with remorse. “Both for whatever happened, and for my bringing it up.”

“You’re allowed to question me,” was all Scrooge could say. “But I might not always wish to answer. Better for you to accept that now.”

“No, of course. I understand.”

Another pause, then with impressive casualness Fred pointed to a different part of the gallery.

“Let’s go have a look at that one, shall we?”

“Yes.” Scrooge managed to clear the burning from his throat, shake the gloom threatening his thoughts. “Yes, let’s do that.”

They moved on, talking of unimportant things with lightness that eventually was no longer forced.

Perhaps as a way of making it up to Fred, he tried being receptive to his suggestions. He heard him out, he tried not rejecting anything at a glance, no matter how visceral his reactions.

In short order he let himself be persuaded on not one but two paintings, and began being swayed on a third. Saying ‘yes’ the first time made it easier to keep going, it turned out.

“Emilia’s never going to believe this,” Fred chortled, triumphant, glancing to see where his wife had gotten to. “She’s going to think that I drugged you or something.”

“You probably shouldn’t joke about that. I doubt she’d find it amusing.”

“Nonsense. She’ll think it’s hilarious. And she loves it when I make her laugh.”

Scrooge tried to think if _ever_ he’d seen Fred’s wife laugh. He supposed looking back over the months he remembered a few times - if one was generous with definition of what constituted laughter.

“Fred...I hope you don’t mind my saying something that’s been weighing on me awhile,” he went carefully. “Given opportunity to observe your home life, I’ve certainly seen that you and your wife care for each other, very much. That said, I still have to remark...well, surely you realize on the surface the pair of you are...erm, a bit of an odd match.”

“Oh. Yes.” Fred chuckled. “I know it might seem that way sometimes.”

“I saw enough during your younger years to feel your character has been consistent.” He asked with delicate confusion, “Did marriage change your wife, at all? I’ve heard it said that happens.”

“No.” He shrugged. “I don’t believe so. Not that I’ve noticed.”

An awkward smile came onto Scrooge’s face. “I must confess then, I have a difficult time picturing your courtship. What it was that drew you to one another.”

“Well it didn’t happen all at once. I mean, we always got on - I think we complement each other, really. She likes that I can give her a sense of fun, and I admire how confident she is, how organized and driven.”

He was smiling as he thought on it. The affection he felt, the passion even, coming through as he spoke.

“But it wasn’t love at first sight. Our families had friends in common, we kept ending up at the same get-togethers, the same parties. It blossomed over months of acquaintance...and eventually, I realized what I had come to feel.”

“How did you know?” he asked, deeply curious. “What made you realize you’d fallen in love?”

Fred considered it seriously.

“I think the most telling sign was every time I saw her, gradually she seemed to grow more beautiful.” He grinned softly. “Maybe that’s the best way to describe falling in love - a person starts out as just a person; then over time, to you they become the most beautiful in the world.”

Scrooge looked aside, responding smile half-hearted. “That’s certainly romantic.”

“You’re going to say that you’ve never been in love, Uncle Ebenezer,” Fred guessed.

“No,” he agreed. “I haven’t.”

“Weren’t you engaged at one point? I think I remember hearing that.”

He shut his eyes briefly, annoyed more at Fred even having that information than over his bringing it up. “Yes, it was a long time ago. A lifetime, it seems.”

“But you weren’t in love then?”

“That isn’t the only reason to get married.”

“I know that, but...well if it wasn’t love, what was it?”

“I was the right age for it, so was she. I’m certain at the time it simply seemed the thing to do.”

“What?” Fred was incredulous. “You almost sound as if you’re guessing. Can’t you tell me anything about this woman; what she was like, what you saw in her. Here’s an easy one, what was her name?”

“Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “She was...related to one of the older gentlemen at the Royal Exchange, when I still worked there. That’s how I met her - that connection through work.”

“All right,” Fred encouraged. “What else?”

“Oh, she was attractive, soft-spoken...patient. Until, she wasn’t.” He looked downward. “I neglected her. That’s what happened. Our engagement lasted nearly three years. We never chose a wedding date; I kept putting it off. I barely visited her. I was always working.”

He hesitated, struggling to justify it now. “There never seemed to be enough time.”

He would have found it, if he truly cared for her - wouldn’t he?

Or maybe he really had only proposed because it was encouraged for a man at that age. Maybe she’d been another status symbol he collected without giving it much thought.

“She broke it off. She got tired of waiting. Who could blame her? I was no one worth waiting for.”

That rejection had hurt at the time, that he knew. Mainly it’d been wounded pride. He’d never thought about getting married again.

It never hit him, until that vision on Christmas Eve - love could have healed the aches inside of him, if only he’d let it. He could’ve been the head of a happy family.

But he’d missed his chance. After Christmas, he’d considered trying to find out what happened to Elizabeth. He’d come to the conclusion however that he had no right to know.

He hoped she’d found happiness. It would be tragic if she hadn’t. But there was nothing he could do, either way - and he didn’t deserve the relief of knowing things had turned out well in spite of him.

“I’m sorry, Fred. I can’t give you what you’re asking for. I...I don’t remember. Whatever I felt when I was with her, whatever I saw in her, the reason I asked for her hand...it’s all gone. I don’t even remember making the proposal.”

There was nothing when he searched his mind. An empty space, at best a blur of confused details.

“I didn’t treasure the memories,” he realized aloud, crestfallen. “I didn’t attach any value to them. I neglected them, just as I did her...I let them all slip away.”

He felt deep revulsion. To think he’d considered himself above even a bittersweet recollection, too good to hold onto sentiment anyone else would’ve recognized as important.

He couldn’t bear to look at his nephew. “I’m sorry, I...I don’t mean to keep doing this to you. You’d be better off not asking me about the past. I don’t have many happy stories.”

“Don’t apologize.” Fred sounded stricken, but surprisingly firm. “It means something that you’re willing to tell me these things, and I appreciate it.”

Scrooge glanced at him and found an earnest face.

“Really?” he went, having trouble understanding.

“Isn’t that what family is for?” Fred opined gently. “We need to be able to talk with someone, about our pain. This is all I ever wanted, Uncle - for us to be there for each other. In good times and bad.”

Scrooge lifted his head up, catching his breath. “I think thus far I’ve only provided bad times,” he said with irony.

“No,” Fred disagreed, reassuring him. “Since January? I have plenty of good memories of the time we’ve spent together. Even today.” He gestured between them. “This is significant.”

He studied his nephew’s face, searching for deception or even reluctance.

Fred only kept smiling that bright-eyed smile.

“It’s been so long I permitted myself to be part of a family,” Scrooge managed at length. “I think that I’ve forgotten how they work.”

But he was able to return a smile of his own.

Fred reached out, giving an affectionate squeeze on his shoulder.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve proven to be a quick study.” He noticed something behind his uncle. “And, here come the ladies...so if you need me to distract them, to give you a moment-”

“Oh - no.” Quickly he sniffed, and blinked; not sure what was showing on his face exactly, gathering his composure. “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” he added softly.

“Not at all.” Fred turned to Emilia, raising his voice again. “Dearest! There you are, I was beginning to worry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure you did no such thing,” his wife responded.

“Did we miss anything?” Belle asked.

“Yes, actually - I’ve already committed to a few selections,” Scrooge informed her.

“Oh did you? That’s wonderful! Do we get to see?”

“If we go back again over everything, we’ll be here all day.”

“Well, I can’t speak for everyone,” Belle shrugged, “but I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Really?” Scrooge wasn’t sure, but it looked as if when they’d returned the women had been standing closer together; a good sign. He decided it was time to make his move. “I thought you had something else to do later.”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Didn’t you say something about wanting to go look for a new dress?”

She stared at him, flummoxed. “N-no. What are you talking about?”

“ _That’s_ right. I’m getting it confused. You said that you wanted to get a new dress, but you didn’t know where to begin looking for a dressmaker. My apologies,” he went airily, “my mind must be slipping.”

Belle was gaping slightly. Still at a loss, but also mildly affronted.

She clearly knew he was putting it on, even if she couldn’t deduce why.

“Oh, is that true?” Emilia remarked. “I would be more than happy to introduce you to mine. She isn’t the _most_ fashionable, but her work is high-quality. I’ve been her loyal customer for years.”

Belle’s jaw dropped more as it finally clicked.

“No,” she protested weakly, “I couldn’t put you out like that-”

“Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. I’ll make an appointment so that I can take you there personally.”

In the wake of Emilia’s decisiveness, Belle had no choice but to do as most did, and surrendered.

As the two women began comparing their schedules to find an appropriate day, he watched silently from where he stood beside his nephew.

That worked out precisely as he’d hoped it would. Hardly the first time he’d ever attempted to manipulate a situation – but it felt very different to do it out of helpfulness.

Ebenezer Scrooge found himself actually struggling to repress a grin.


	12. The Celebrated Herd

_They were in another scene and place: a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like the last that Scrooge believed it was the same, until he saw_ her _, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter._ _The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there, than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. - Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits_

Change, it seemed, came in two forms.

One was slow, frustrating. Results a struggle to find; only within grasp as a desperate promise for the future. Progress and concession wrung out, drop by drop by drop.

The other, naturally, the complete opposite. An abrupt about-face. Happenings so swift they could scarcely be processed, a flood sweeping the landscape before one’s eyes.

Ebenezer Scrooge had presumed the plan regarding his apartments would’ve fallen into the former. It was an undertaking he’d no sense of investment in, and what he knew of such matters left him under impression they happened at a languid pace. Every anecdote he’d ever heard involved the better part of a year spent making over a house.

But as experienced often lately, reality denied expectations.

Decisions were made rapidly. Presented with something he could live with, he gave assent without a moment’s agonizing. If multiple options perplexed him, he could always fall back on habit: he chose what was cheapest.

Occasionally he suspected padding to the bill and then it only took a few clipped, unimpressed phrases to get things moving again. As the parties involved realized they were dealing with one who wasn’t hoodwinked by vague talk of fees and market prices, they gave up the game.

He was still a good commission; though he wasn’t drawn to luxury, money was mostly no object. Payment was always immediate and in full.

Fred had deputized himself as his uncle’s agent, in effect. He was over at least three times a week.

Unflaggingly producing suggestions to replace rejected ones. Carting over magazine clippings and checklists in his scribbled handwriting and precise notes of feedback from his wife. Researching then providing names of tradesmen as if he pulled them from the air.

“Emilia’s getting a bit cross with me,” he admitted at one point in a breathless chuckle. “There’s still loads to be done in preparation for our summer holiday. It comes sooner than you’d think; somehow, that always seems to happen.”

“If it’s the cause of any difficulty, you’re certainly free to set this aside,” Scrooge assured him.

“Oh no,” Fred went unflinchingly, grinning harder. “This is the perfect excuse _not_ to deal with all that. Bringing things down and packing things up and planning what’s needed to be moved where, when - it’s the kind of minutiae with which my wife excels, and which threatens to drive me to distraction.”

He absently wrapped his knuckles against the table between them, spread with sketches and samples.

“She might feel obliged to some protest, but truth is I think we both know it’s better off without me underfoot. Certainly, _I’m_ far happier for it.”

This explanation mollified the surprise Scrooge had felt over Fred’s hearty plunge into the project. Though he still cast a puzzled askance look over the sheer level of his ensuing enthusiasm.

He remarked on this to Belle, one afternoon as he was asking her opinion over yet another decision.

She glanced up from the fabric swatches she’d been considering, meeting his eyes.

“Do you think perhaps he’s also glad for a _different_ excuse - that is, to spend more time with you?” she offered.

He paused. “...Oh. Yes. I suppose that does make sense.”

Belle gave a nod, satisfied, tapping one of the fabrics. “This one, I’d say.”

Between her feedback and Fred’s, the days and decisions flew by. Before the month was out, his living space was undergoing near-miraculous levels of transformation.

There was new varnish on the woodwork, new paint on the walls. Spaces brightened by floor rugs and decorations and lamps. He clung to some things, still eschewed as much clutter as he conceivably could. Reluctant as he’d been each phase however he couldn’t argue with the results.

His home did look...warmer. Like it was actually lived in. He could admit, it felt easier to relax there - that is, once he adjusted to the changes themselves.

A late spring morning found him roused to wakefulness on schedule. Rather than rising immediately he lay there, blinking, as he looked around. He’d kept the same bed-frame and his favorite armchair but nearly everything else was different.

“Good morning, sir,” his maid greeted politely. She held the usual breakfast tray - tea steaming, butter melting freshly into the toast.

“Good morning, Miss Jenny.” He sat up, scrubbing at his eyes.

His gaze settled on the replacement bedclothes, the newer curtains. “I suppose it will take some time to get used to this,” he concluded in a murmur. “Though it doesn’t help the lingering fog when I leave slumber only to find myself in what at first seems unfamiliar surroundings.”

“I’m certain it doesn’t, sir,” Jenny offered her sympathy. She carefully set the tray in front of him, pouring out the tea.

He lifted his cup in both hands, waiting for the heat to abate slightly; willing the sensation to help cut through the haze.

The maid shuffled back, head bowed. He suspected that each morning she could wake him by voice alone was a relief to her - sometimes if he was too deep she’d no choice but to rest hand on his shoulder, giving a little shake.

He’d given her explicit permission to do so - less embarrassing and inconvenient than constantly oversleeping.

Even so, literally reaching through the class boundaries like that was clearly a trial to her uneasy nerves.

He sipped his tea and glanced around again, examining with clearer eyes.

“Where is Erasmus? Have you seen him today?”

“Not yet, sir. I’m sure he’s curled in a hiding place, sulking from all the fuss.”

“Hm. You’re probably right.”

Cats never took well to differences. The noise, the comings and goings of workmen, the altered surroundings: Erasmus had been very unhappy.

Scrooge would rather be given baleful feline looks and hissed at from beneath something, than the alternative. The front door left open with such frequency had proven too great a temptation.

He still recalled the panic he’d felt seeing that white blur bolt through before anyone could stop it.

Fortunately, the escapee hadn’t made it very far that day. He was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

“Do make certain to find him this morning, before you begin your tasks,” he instructed. “I would like confirmation he’s still inside, for assurances.”

“Of course, sir. Is there to be any more work done today, then?”

“No. Not today. The next is planned for Wednesday, to deal with the parlor. Or...what is going to be the parlor. Still, even until then, we must be careful.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Good.” He sat up further, resting against the headboard. “At least someone in this house is as thrown as I am by the presence of so much change,” he observed dryly.

He was talking to himself - the maid knew that. She’d plenty of time to accustom to his idiosyncrasies. Taking how he otherwise ignored her as dismissal, she’d bobbed her head, was going back out of the room.

The movement caught his distracted attention, and as he glanced her way he realized something.

“Miss Jenny?”

She turned back to face him. “Aye, sir?”

He stared at her. “It just occurred to me...at no point has it ever been asked what _you_ make of all this.”

“What...what I am to make of what, sir?” She blinked.

“The work being done on the house.” He shrugged best he could from his position; talking to her when he was still abed, still in his nightclothes, was awkward in more ways than one. “Surely, you must have _some_ opinion.”

“I...no. I don’t have one, sir.” She flustered with confusion. “I wouldn’t presume. It’s not my place. Besides which, I know nothing of such finery.”

He quietly sighed. “All right. I wasn’t precisely looking for even more feedback on the decorative arts, anyway. But, on the practical side of things: you must have some thoughts.” He gestured at her. “When I hired you, specific mention was made how your work wouldn’t be arduous because I didn’t own much for you to look after.”

“Aye, sir,” she said dutifully. “I do recall.”

He gestured again, now at the surroundings. “And, that is no longer the case.” When she didn’t respond, some exasperation developed. “Well, I effectively hired you under false pretenses. I’ve changed the terms of employment on you without warning.”

He realized by her expression he was going to have to spell it out for her.

“Does that upset you, at all? Do you feel that it is unfair?”

She blinked again, growing concerned and nervous.

“What is it that you want me to say, sir?” she inquired meekly.

Now it was his turn to blink - taken aback. “I want you to be honest,” he insisted, soft.

He sincerely hoped she wasn’t so discontent she thought of leaving. She was a good maid, and he’d gotten as used to her as she to him. If she thought she deserved a pay raise, he was willing to consider it.

Mainly though, he wondered what she was feeling. If she thought ill of him he wanted to know - rather than unhappiness left to secretly fester, to who knew what end.

“My work does take some more time now, it’s true. But not that much, really.” Her words came slow as she thought. “I don’t feel...tricked, if that’s what you’re asking me, sir. Taken advantage of, I mean.”

She unclasped hands partially, giving a kind of shrugging gesture with her thumbs.

“It makes less a difference than you seem to think. Sure there’s more to dust around...but there’s only one of you, sir, and things still hardly ever get moved or used. It’s people that make the biggest messes. Not things.”

“Ah.” He relaxed as he absorbed her reasoning. “I see. Well, that’s good to hear. It wasn’t my intention anywhere in all of this to make things more difficult for you - but unintended consequences have been a particular blind spot of mine in the past.”

“I don’t see how that could be so, sir,” she commented. “You’re one of the most observant, thoughtful people I know.”

He stilled in the process of raising his teacup again, mouth half-open in bemusement. So consternated it didn’t even occur to thank her for what was perhaps a compliment.

Seeing that she’d thrown him, Jenny looked downward as if chastised.

“If there isn’t anything else sir, I’ll leave you to enjoy your breakfast.”

“I...no,” he managed, retreating behind stiff formality. “That is all. You may go.”

She nodded again and exited. There was nothing left but to attend to his breakfast, after that the rest of his morning routine.

With the happenings at his house it had become a daily relief, retreating to peace and quiet at his office.

The obvious gaps from items and papers already removed made it seem an odd, half-formed place - a ship that was slowly sinking. But he ignored that best he could. With sight fixed on the ledgers, seated behind his desk in an unchanged corner of sanctity, he usually succeeded.

If Belle had preference, she never voiced it. She simply turned up wherever he told her to be, carrying on tasks with same attitude and efficiency.

That day began like any other. When the mid-morning post arrived she sorted the mail, landing on a now-familiar style of envelope.

She brought it over. On the far-right corner of his desk was the little basket they’d designated for the lawsuits, and she set it on top of the pile.

He glanced up, studying her face. Though her expression creased with displeasure, she said nothing.

Just as wordless himself he stood, reaching into the basket. Rifling through until he found the one he was looking for, mid-pile. He straightened again, held it out to her.

“I received notice from my representatives yesterday that this one has been successfully settled,” he announced. She smiled as she took it from him. “You may dispose of it.”

“I’ll burn it in the fire.” With a turn so sharp it was almost a twirl she went into the front room, presumably to do just that.

An unnecessarily thorough act. Perhaps she took some satisfaction from watching the paper singe and crumple to ashes.

He was mildly surprised she’d a fire going in the outer room at all. Though she wasn’t prone to complaining, it could be years of constantly dealing with cold left her keen on avoiding it whenever she could. But the weather was quite warm now, he thought; he’d gone back to not having a fire by his desk for the past month.

Still standing he looked carelessly out the window. “Little wonder you’re in a good mood, Miss Belle.”

She returned to the room, countering mildly, “I’d like to say that I’m always cheerful.”

“Yes - it is your nature. What I’m referring to in particular is the season, which you spent such time rather vocally longing for. Spring, it would appear, is here for you at last.”

A light-hearted scoff. “Oh, sure! It is recognizably spring, with true consistency - and next month, it’ll be _summer_. It’s been heating up already.”

An amused smile crept onto his face. “That does tend to happen,” he went meaningfully, “every year.”

She gave a similar smile as she returned, “And every year one can’t but hope and pray that it won’t happen the same, bemoan over it when it doesn’t.”

“Of course. Some things never change.”

Saying that aloud however reminded him of the many things that did. Smile faded in favor of more pensive expression.

“Mr. Ebenezer?” Belle prompted, curious.

He let her inquiry hang for a beat, silent - before at last his gaze slid over to meet hers.

“An interested party has been found to purchase these offices.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “You never mentioned-”

“I did not wish to. It’s been in the works for awhile. There are many reasons such negotiations often fall through; there didn’t seem any point discussing it prematurely.” He glanced at the floor. “However, the deal is completed. Final. I signed the papers and sent them off. Maintained my own copy of record, of course; it’s on my desk at home…”

“We’ll have to get a move on, with the packing,” she commented, ignoring his mumblings as she glanced about.

“No - they won’t be able to take possession for another few months yet. So, our timetable remains...about the same.”

He’d wandered from behind his desk, pacing closer to her as he spoke. Stopped a short distance away as he again trailed into silence.

“How do you feel about it?” Belle asked, softly. “Things being settled now, and all?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “I should be glad to get it over with. There should be no surprise, nor uncertainty...there’s been more than time enough to grow used to the idea.”

He paused. She waited.

“However I don’t think I really...accepted it.” Lifting his eyes he looked at his surroundings. “It’s strange to think I should ever leave this place. That I should move on without it.”

Before the year was out he would still be Ebenezer Scrooge, but without the business of Scrooge and Marley. He would be a retired gentleman, and the firm would be relegated to the past tense - something that no longer existed. Even as he continued to do so.

The notion was befuddling.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t think I ever believed that would happen; the only way I should end my time here is they would carry me out.”

He looked over his shoulder at the matching desks. Behind him, Belle faltered.

“Is that how…” Her voice lowered. “Is that what happened to…?”

He faced her again, realizing her incomplete question. She was asking about Marley.

What a thing for her to tiptoe around. That for nearly half a year she might have been walking right past where they’d found a man lifeless.

“No. He died at home, in his bed.”

“Oh, I see.” Either she felt it’d be impolite to drop the subject, or more curiosity on it emerged than she ever had previously. “Was it sudden?”

“It took _me_ entirely by surprise. But no, not precisely. He developed a persistent cough about midway through November. By December he couldn’t make it into work, took to his bed.” He hesitated. “I remember complaining I felt that he was being lazy, exaggerating his condition as an excuse; though I meant it as something of a joke. Mostly.”

“Well he was your friend, and you knew him for so long,” she said reasonably. “I’m sure he understood you.”

His response to that was a noncommittal sound.

“The doctor’s conclusion was that the worst was over with and he’d recover shortly; he only needed rest and time. But, then chills set in...sweating, fever. Just like that, he was gone.”

“I’m sorry,” she offered - precious little else she could say, though she appeared sincere enough. “Sometimes you can never predict how it’ll turn out, when someone takes ill. At least...at least his pain should be long over.”

“Yes.” He walked past her, voice confident. “It is. I know without any doubt he’s found peace beyond this world. Don’t ask me to explain why I’m so certain, but...I am.”

He sunk into the chair in the corner usually reserved for her.

Despite his adamant statements he felt wearied, and it showed in his posture. He slumped, head down, eyes fixed on the floor.

Belle approached him. “What’s wrong, then?”

He was quiet as he looked up and answered her. “I should have been there. My long-time friend and partner lay upon the point of death; and rather than being with him I sat - _here_ , instead.” A jabbing finger as he indicated the office. “Each of us alone. Quite alone. And that’s how he died.”

“You couldn’t have known. Why, you just said-”

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off, “there are _excuses_. Acceptable ones, even, to many.” He drew a breath. “It doesn’t matter. I should have been with him. I visited him, a few times, though I never remained long. There didn’t seem much purpose, with him unable to carry on a conversation. I couldn’t think of a...practical reason, to sit and stay.”

He stared into space, lump in his throat.

He was galled by these reminders how truly _heartless_ he had been. Even Jacob hadn’t been afforded much in the way of consideration or kindness. Even the few, rare times that he cared - he’d still acted as if he didn’t.

And so Jacob Marley died alone in his rooms, without anyone to comfort him as he took his last breath.

Belle bent down, resting her hand on the back of his to get his attention.

“Do you think he expected more from you?”

“I don’t know. But he would have been there for me, had our places been reversed.” His voice was hoarse. “Our sins were matched in many respects, but Jacob was always better with humanity. He didn’t balk over things I would have considered...too sentimental. A weakness.”

“Do you think he’s angry at you, then?”

She asked with such somber seriousness, that he gave half a startled laugh out of reflex.

But then she’d no idea he was in a unique position to consider that, compared to most. “I...I don’t think so, no.”

Marley had not been precisely _happy_ to see him, but then they’d both had bigger things on their minds. Still, Jacob could be a petty creature, when he wanted - if he was still holding a grudge, one imagined he’d have found a way to bring it up.

Scrooge shut his eyes, needing a moment alone in his mind. “I would like to think that he’s past all negative feelings, for me or otherwise.”

His redemption had been Jacob’s salvation - but he never would’ve gotten there without that push from a familiar face. He assumed they were even, then - no debts owed to the other.

Though the slate would never be clean. He would mourn the friendship lost, regret what he might’ve done differently. This, he’d come to accept, was the cost of letting himself actually remember the past.

“That’s a nice way of thinking about it.” Where she still touched him, Belle gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He opened his eyes to find her smiling reassuringly. “Whatever there is on the other side, I’d like to think there’s no place for pain or anger.”

He thought about the spirits he’d seen. “You don’t think there’s ever any...unresolved feelings?”

She straightened up again so that her face was above his, looking down. “I think that’s the type of thing people torment themselves enough with in life.”

She moved off to arrange some papers, acting utterly involved in her task. Trying to give him his space.

He breathed in through his nose, swallowing as he tried to regain his composure.

She called it a ‘torment’, and she was right. It was unlikely his afterlife would be respite - that didn’t frighten him. His pride and resentment had caused him more misery than heavy chains ever would.

If penance still awaited when all was said and done, he’d accept without complaint. There were better things to live for than selfish fears of judgment.

And maybe he deserved recrimination from Marley, and others, but hopefully they weren’t still angry - not for his sake, but theirs. Holding onto that would only keep them from peace.

He stood up slowly, not looking at Belle as he went to the window.

“Perhaps we should go out for our tea, this afternoon,” he found himself musing. “It’s too lovely a day to remain inside, if one has the choice.”

The sun was bright, the weather was good. It seemed a perfect day to be alive.

“Sure.” Belle turned, seizing onto the idea fluidly. “We could head to a park! Sit down on the grass and watch the people who’re out and about walking.”

He frowned slightly, not having anticipated this escalation. “That would take far more than the usual time.”

“Well, we can stay later to make up the difference,” she suggested. “If it bothers you so.”

Her easy tone didn’t quite side-step what they both knew. Productivity aside, there was nothing on his plate so pressing that it’d derail with losing an hour or so. The only timetable he had now was his own, and he simply didn’t have so much to do anymore.

Despite the truth to it he bristled at implication his work could be dismissed as unimportant, when it was the core around which he focused much of his identity.

But, he asked - what _would_ it hurt, really? He had to admit: probably nothing.

Curiosity started to form. Could he even be the type of person that took off for a long leisurely lunch in the middle of a work-day?

There was only one way to find out.

“We’ll consider this an experiment,” he told Belle, somewhat gruffly. “It is no guarantee at all that there will be a habit made out of this.”

“Oh yes, of course,” she went seriously - trying not to smirk.

When time came for their break the decision was fixed upon St. James; coziest of the parks. Open to the public since the Restoration, small acreage kept it hidden from tourists, not quite fashionable enough for many locals.

Though there was plenty a winding stroll, there was no horse-path, nor many discrete bowers where lovers could hide. The park’s main draw was its green lake with birds congregating around, tolerating children brought by their nannies with downright unnatural patience.

The age of professional courtesan, the _demi-monde_ , had long ended - the loose morals of previous generation seemingly scandalizing their replacements to propriety. Though within a few blocks still were streets viewed as domain of young men of fashion and their clubs, the same simply was no longer true of the nearby park. What only decades ago had been the place to see and be seen for rakes and flirts was now a sleepy corner favored by children and their caregivers. Funny how swiftly nuances of the world could sometimes change.

They’d purchased sandwiches and cakes on the way. Their ‘tea’ would have to be a luncheon, with no way to make the kettle portable - though Belle had gamely been willing to try. Scrooge dismissed the idea outright.

She left him to find place to sit while she searched for beverages. He located a dry and tidy spot with expansive view of the lake and birds, without being anywhere close - content as they seemed, he didn’t trust holding food in proximity of such plump waterfowl. Over the treetops could be made out part of the Duke of York Column. He sat down, arranged their things, and tried to get comfortable.

He couldn’t shake feeling of self-consciousness - sitting there by a dip in the grassy lawn, on an April afternoon, holding a paper-wrapped sandwich. It was so very unlike himself, he almost had to bemusedly wonder who he was instead.

He tried taking mind off it by watching the lake, seeing if he could spot the pelicans.

“There you are! Sorry that took awhile. Practically wound up by the Mall before I could find a lemonade cart.”

He looked up at Belle’s voice as she made her way over, tripping down the path.

Gazing at her in full from middle distance, it struck him out of nowhere how different she looked from that night they’d met.

She’d always been objectively attractive, perhaps; but now her complexion gleamed, haggard shadows gone from beneath her eyes. Petite frame filled out from good health and regular meals.

The smiling lips, dark eyes and thick lashes were only more striking with improvement to rest of her looks. She wore her hair down whenever she could get away with it, either a braid across one shoulder or half-pinned back beneath a bonnet, and today the sunlight shone radiantly along her black locks.

He couldn’t help admiring what he saw, glad for what change in fortune had done for her.

“What is it?” Belle inquired - Scrooge realized that he’d been staring.

“Oh - nothing.” He remarked, “I was only thinking how springtime agrees with you.”

She gave a little laugh as she handed his drink over. “Funny! That’s what I was thinking about you.”

 _“Me?”_ he repeated, with disbelief and irony. “There’s not a single individual in London you could find whose character is less reminiscent of the springtime.”

“All right.” She sat down not quite at his side, smoothing her skirts. “Maybe what looks well on you, then, is happiness.”

He had to smile faintly at that. “Perhaps,” he conceded quietly.

Belle drank her lemonade and reached for her sandwich. “Did you see the pelicans?”

“No, I haven’t; not yet.”

It was indeed a well-appointed day to relax outdoors. Between the warm breeze, the view of the lake and scent of the grass, he forgot any anxiety about time. They finished eating, disposed of their trash, stood and brushed themselves off; by then others in the park had been replaced by completely different people.

As Belle returned cups to the vendor, he checked his pocket-watch. Even if they went straight back, there’d be hardly any time left to the working-day.

And yet, he felt no inclination to hurry. He sighed to himself. He _was_ going soft.

His assistant rejoining him, the decision was made to go for closer look at the Column they’d been staring at this whole time. Though it’d been erected a decade ago, he’d never gotten around to visiting.

Together they strolled through the park, across the Mall, climbed the Duke of York Stairs to stand at the base of the monument, necks craning up.

The legend, or perhaps joke, was the column was so tall in order to keep the statue on top safe from the deceased Duke’s creditors.

Scrooge assumed whoever created that story wasn’t familiar with the same people he was - if anything worthwhile could be nabbed by a debt collector, no amount of height would’ve prevented them.

Having looked their fill they returned how they came; stopping two-thirds the way down the many marble steps to stand and rest a moment.

“What do you reckon for when we get back, Mr. Ebenezer?”

“I could tell you my calculations as to the time, but it hardly matters,” he admitted. “I had a document I was in midst of that I prefer to complete; otherwise we might as well be done for the day. You can retrieve your things and head home.”

“Not at all. I’ll stay until you’ve finished.”

“I dislike keeping you so late, considering you have that long walk after.”

“Your concern is touching, sir. But you know I can take care of myself.”

An unfamiliar voice broke in just then, calling out from the pavement.

“…Miss Ledford? Is that you?”

A figure paused walking by at the bottom of the stairs. A man, staring at Belle with instant recognition.

Changing direction, he briskly climbed the steps towards them. “Why, bless my soul it is - Miss Ledford!”

“Neddy!” she exclaimed. They greeted each other with a light hug. “Fancy seeing you here! What are the chances?”

“I haven’t seen you around for awhile - heard a rumor you moved up in the world.” The man glanced down, taking her in. “From the look of things, it appears that’s right.”

“Yes, it’s true, I’m an assistant now.” She beamed. “A business-oriented professional. This is my employer, in fact.” She looked to Scrooge, gesturing as she made introductions. “Neddy here is a good old friend of mine - and Neddy, this is Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, of Scrooge and Marley.”

Neddy smiled warmly - he didn’t appear to recognize the name. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He was likely around twenty-five years, a tall man with distinct middle-class London accent. He had dark brown skin though when he removed his hat it revealed close-shorn whirls of hair that were fair, practically blond. His suit was cheap though cared for, his shoes shabby and well-worn.

“A pleasure, likewise.” Scrooge shook his offered hand. “I take it you must work for the census?”

“Oh, you remembered,” Belle noted with delight. “Yes; I told Mr. Ebenezer those are the only people I let get away with ‘Miss Ledford’-ing me.”

“It’s true,” Neddy said simply. “I can be stubborn like that.”

“Well you have to be, in your line of work.” To Scrooge, Belle explained, “He’s a door-to-door head-counter. Works that whole part of town.”

To call that unglamorous post was putting it mildly - Scrooge wondered what unfortunate start this young man must have had, to be saddled with that position.

“You’ve worked there for some time, I take it?”

“Three years, sir. Coming up on four,” Neddy replied. “It’s rough, but I don’t mind. If the City doesn’t know how many people there are, there’s less chance they’ll get resources they need.”

“When the City remembers to give out any,” Scrooge went wryly.

Neddy nodded, otherwise letting comment pass. “And folk down there don’t always like to be counted. It’s taken time to earn their trust.”

“He’s a hard worker and a kind heart,” Belle enthused. “As good as gold.”

“I’d think any friend of yours must be.” Scrooge faintly smiled.

“Yes, she’s a sharp judge of character, isn’t she?” Neddy remarked with fondness, looking to Belle. “I take it this year I won’t be counting you around the old neighborhood.”

“Maybe not. Right now I’m still splitting a rent with Aggie Newell, but I mean to look for a flat of my own. I want to be sure I’ve got plenty of savings, first.”

“Of course. Well, I’ll miss you, Miss Ledford - it won’t be the same there without you. I do hope you’ll come back and visit, sometime?”

“Oh, you know I will! What, and miss the chance to check up on my old friends?”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiled at her, then tipped his hat to Scrooge again. “Well, I’ll leave you to carry on with what you were doing - I only wanted to say hello.”

“Never apologize for congeniality.” Belle embraced him again, briefly. “Have a nice day!”

“Good afternoon to you, sir,” Scrooge said politely in farewell, as the other man went back on his way.

He’d never met any of Belle’s friends, he realized. Though he of course knew she must have some, it was nice to see proof they existed. That she’d a life outside the time spent with him.

Still - there was something about the way she had greeted _this_ friend. The way they smiled at one another.

Earlier observations had reminded him that Belle was, after all, a woman.

Neddy was long gone by time they were making their own way back. They’d been walking a bit in companionable silence, side by side.

Scrooge remarked, “He seemed quite nice.”

Apparently, those four words carried significance. Judging by the look Belle at once shot him, incredulous and annoyed.

“What?” he protested. “He did.” He dodged her scowl, murmuring, “I was only saying - he seems like a nice young man, indeed.”

“He is my _friend_ ,” Belle emphasized with note of impatience. “That’s all.”

He hesitated. “You’re certain that’s all?”

“Oh, come now!”

“He was rather complimentary of you,” he pointed out. “It’s hardly that unthinkable, there being a...a young man or two, with which you share some fondness, perhaps even an understanding-”

“And just how many suitors do you think I’m stringing along?” she asked tartly.

Having put himself in this awkward situation, he might as well gather his courage and continue.

“I am trying to be reasonable. And...understanding. For most women, finding a man to attach themselves to is the only real way to secure their future. An unfortunate reality.”

There wasn’t anything especially mercenary about him saying this. Indeed, similar conversations were no doubt taking place around the city, the country, even the world.

“If I did get attached, it would be expected I’d be done working. Like a maid, leaving service when she settles,” she retorted. “I hope you aren’t in any hurry.”

“Not at all.” His eyes widened. “I greatly appreciate having you around. My bringing this up isn’t consequence of my looking for excuse to be rid of you; far from it. I value you highly, which is why I’d like to see your happiness secured. And...well, it _would_ be a good opportunity. Surely you see that.”

“I understand you’re trying to be helpful. But, truly - Neddy is only a friend. Nothing more.”

“There are worse things to start a marriage from than friendship.”

“I know, but...it wouldn’t work.” She sighed. “Trust me. It wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

She smiled wryly. “Neddy has more prospects than you realize. He has a degree in law. He might even go into politics one day.”

“Oh what a shame,” he quipped; “and until you said that I liked him so well.”

“I’m serious! If he did get married, he’d need a respectable wife. One who won’t be snubbed by the other wives. Who can leave cards and throw dinner parties and assist his navigating society. That won’t be me. You know it wouldn’t.”

He set his jaw and frowned. But he couldn’t argue.

A man with political ambitions, any higher ambitions at all, needed a wife he could introduce to polite society. Scrooge might not care, plenty of others might not - but none of them were about to be invited to dine with a peer any time soon. Because of her background Belle would be cut by those with power, making her a huge liability to a would-be spouse.

“Another unfortunate reality,” he muttered.

Belle looked at the ground, her pace slowing. She hung close by his side; he didn’t struggle to hear her though her voice grew quiet.

“Besides, even if there wasn’t that…” She hesitated, weighing her words. “Marriage might be security to a woman; for men it means something different. A man who wants to marry is looking to _his_ future. He’s not only thinking about a wife; he’s thinking about starting a family. About his legacy. And I’d be no help with that, either.”

Bemused, he tried piecing out what she was saying. “You don’t wish to have children?”

“It isn’t a matter of wishing or wanting.”

Despite the warm weather she folded her arms, gripping elbows lightly; hugging herself.

“Those years on the street, doing what I did...takes its toll. I never got the worst kinds of sick from it. I was luckier than many, than most.”

She stared straight ahead.

“Still I did take ill, once or twice. Last time a doctor gave me a proper examination...he told me it was impossible. That it was never gonna happen.”

What she was telling him - something never discussed publicly, _never_ between the sexes, rarely mentioned among men at all - hit like a cold shock.

“Miss Belle, I...I am so sorry,” he stammered, aghast. “I should have never-”

“It’s fine.” She tilted head toward him, almost shyly. “I know you meant well. Sorry if I’ve gone and made you uncomfortable. It’s just...I’d rather talk about it, than try and talk around.”

He didn’t know what to say. He knew no words to offer his sympathy.

He bowed his head, somber; remaining by her side, matching her pace so she wouldn’t mistake his lack of response for revulsion.

What she’d told him was deeply tragic, and personal. For a number of reasons. Even his own sister had delicately wavered around the subject of failed childbearing, to where he’d barely understood her.

It overwhelmed him - this proof Belle was _that_ comfortable with him; that she trusted him that much.

Then, their very first conversation had been one of unbridled frankness. It seemed there was no retreating behind propriety, after that.

“I _am_ sorry,” he repeated. “Not that you told me. No. I mean, sorry that you...should have suffered so.”

She shrugged. “Well. Between my lack of respectability, and...that, I’ve little to offer in conventional value as a wife.” A short, soft laugh. “The only reason I’ll ever get married is for love. I’ve nothing to gain by a more practical arrangement.”

“No,” he was forced to agree. “Perhaps not.”

Their footsteps echoed where they shuffled along the pavement. If he listened carefully, he could hear her breathe.

“Thing is, I never even thought about it. If I was looking forward to having children. I’d enough to think about; keeping myself alive, one day to the next. Before I ever got around to considering, found out it wasn’t an option.” She offered lightly, “Maybe that’s for the best. Can’t regret something I never really wanted.”

His mouth twitched. As if she saw more than he meant to give away, she looked more closely at him.

“Did _you_ ever want to have children?”

It perhaps should've been an impertinence. But how could he scowl at the inquiry, considering what she’d told of herself? An honest reply was only fair.

He lifted his chin, trying to hold his composure. “I never thought about it, either. My mind was always focused on working - never on living, on what else I could be doing with myself.” He shook his head. “Outlandish or maybe simply pathetic as it sounds, it literally never occurred to me...that I could have married, that I could have been a father. Until it was much too late.”

With how his voice weakened, she waited a beat, trying not to sound too cheeky: “You know, it probably isn’t _too_ late. Not really.”

He shook his head again, mouth twisted wryly.

She persisted. “I’m only saying! Older men than you have become fathers. We both know it.”

“No, older men than me have sired offspring,” he corrected firmly. “But being a father, at my age - I could never. It would feel like a joke. Some...last attempt at clutching what had passed me by.”

She bit her lip, watching him with expression that was neither a smile or a frown.

“There was a time for it, in my life. I missed it. I have accepted that,” he finished. “If I feel a passing sorrow, or regret, to think on what might have been, I do not let it linger long. It does no good.”

Belle curled her hand around his arm, as much gesture of comfort as perhaps circumstance permitted.

“Maybe not,” she said. “Still, you are allowed to feel a little sad. It’s not necessarily the same as being sorry for yourself.”

He breathed out slow, nearly a hiss.

“Perhaps it’s just as well. I might have _liked_ to be a father, but that’s no guarantee I’d have been a good one. Whether we mean to or not, we learn from the examples set by our parents.” He glanced at Belle, darkly clarifying, “Mine was no example I’d like to follow.”

She nodded, showing she’d guessed as much.

“Well,” she tried, “look at it this way. You’ve got your nephew’s children; so you skipped a generation. Now you don’t have to worry about discipline. You only get to spoil them, and have fun.”

“That is true,” he noted, almost managing a smile.

He did enjoy the relationship he had with those children - the moments he shared with them were full of joy.

If they weren’t ‘his’ children, what of it? His children had never existed. He couldn’t beg for something he had foolishly given away.

He would value what opportunities were still available to him. It was already more than he’d had.

He’d sunk into contemplative silence, and Belle had likewise.

Out of nowhere, she murmured, “Feels like there’s a wind kicking up.”

“What?” He frowned. He noticed nothing of the kind.

She tugged closer where their arms were linked, and leaned, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Are you cold?” he went, startled.

“I’m pretending to be,” she responded in a forthright mumble. “So that I can do this.”

“Oh,” was the only thing he could say.

For awhile he watched her dubiously from the corner of his eye, not sure what to make of it.

But bit by bit, he tried to relax.

They both had bared something unhappy - maybe she didn’t want to feel alone. Maybe she worried he felt alone, also, and this was the only idea she had to help.

It was strange, and he’d stiffened against her touch reflexively. But at times like these, he could admit, it did feel nice to have a friend. Someone to help shoulder a burden, if only by their presence.

He’d never before appreciated the worth of a wordless gesture. The sentiment that could be conveyed.

Maybe it made them both feel better, knowing that they shared this understanding.

It was late afternoon, the streets relatively deserted. Quiet, or as quiet as central London could be.

Down the pavement on a slow stroll back toward his office went Ebenezer Scrooge, holding onto Belle’s arm, her hand tucked tightly against him – the both of them leaning companionably on the other.


	13. Courses Will Foreshadow

_"Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point," said Scrooge, "answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be, only?"_

_Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood._

_"Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead," said Scrooge. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!" - Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits_

A grown man’s pocket-watch was an essential accessory. London was a city of trains and postmen, deliveries and deposits, grand openings and newspaper printings. A vast interconnected enterprise, run on the very concept of time.

The clerk or grocer’s assistant had reliable if battered piece; given steady care like a farmer’s plow-horse, dependent upon the assistance in his livelihood. The man of leisure had expensive piece with bejeweled fob, studying it with a yawn to demonstrate perpetual lateness. The banker had one with big face and small dark numbers, of some intimidatingly solid metal, obsessively clutched in his hand.

Ebenezer Scrooge’s pocket-watch was silver, slight filigree design outside, perfectly-spaced links in its chain. It was a gentleman’s piece, finely-made without ostentation. He’d purchased it to commemorate the fifth year of his business.

He maintained it himself, the last Sunday evening of every month. Drop of oil applied where gears looked dull, stray bits of fluff removed with tweezers. Every five years, a thorough cleaning and reassembly - he’d learned how by studying a book.

It wasn’t only a cost-saving measure. He enjoyed it. A methodical series of tasks, requiring a steady hand.

A good pocket-watch was an investment. With proper care it’d last a man’s life, often passed down to his son.

Before, Scrooge never thought who’d receive his watch after he died. If pressed he’d have assumed, sneeringly, it and other small things of value would be stolen by the maid.

Now in his updated will, among many other bequests, there was a single line:

_‘And my silver pocket-watch, with original hand-tooled leather case, will be distributed to my nephew Frederick Barnaby Clarkson’._

Every evening when Scrooge changed clothes, he wound the watch before putting it away. A task fit like a gear into the mechanism of his routine.

He changed out of his day clothes; he wound his watch; he ate his dinner; he read letters or sometimes a book; he took three drops of tonic in a glass of water; he went to bed.

In the morning his maid arrived and woke him, he ate breakfast and washed and dressed and shaved by when his assistant arrived - at always the same time.

He saw the same people at certain times every day, around the same time every week. Every week, every day proceeded like the rest; in this way his life slid on - like that, it was halfway into May.

Not to say, of course, routine was never interrupted. Each person now inserted potential for alteration, near entirely at random. Such was the way of the world.

But he thought he deserved credit, for not letting it make him too cross.

He might say as much to his nephew, he thought to himself on his way over for dinner. The weekly family gatherings had remained consistent; Scrooge going from feeling uncertain, to enjoying them, to almost taking them for granted.

Of course, having reached that point, his nephew’s family would confound him by leaving on holiday.

The children would be packed off to spend about a week with their grandparents and the infamously overwrought Aunt Maureen. After that they’d join their parents at the seaside, where they’d rented a house. There’d be the usual alleged delights, no doubt - seashell collecting and ice creams and bathing costumes; whatever else it was that dragged people from the city in droves each year as the calendar changed.

The children - and Fred - promised to send letters, updating him on their misadventures.

The promise would likely be repeated during this evening: the last the children would see of their great-uncle for a while. The imminent farewell, the long absence, already turned it into an irregular occasion. Peter was home once more - and Mathilde’s birthday was next week, and Charlotte’s would occur in midst of their holiday, so both girls would receive presents now.

It began however like any of his visits. The girl opened the door to his knock; recognizing him, she greeted him by name; dutifully took his hat and coat. She offered to escort him to the parlor.

“Thank you, no. I will show myself in.” He saw no point in such ceremony. He certainly knew the way.

Fred and the children were waiting; responding to him with familiar enthusiasm, one by one.

“What’s this.” He smiled faintly at Peter. “I suppose this is where I am to pretend not to recognize you - the young man having been away for so long.”

“I hardly think I’ve changed much in a few months at school, Uncle Ebenezer.” Peter grinned.

“He actually has gotten a bit taller, Uncle,” Fred put in, gesturing. “Have a look.”

“Oh?” He measured Peter’s height with one hand, leaning back to better scrutinize. “Why yes, so he has.”

He gave the beaming lad a pat on the shoulder. “Well done. You’ve reached the age where one begins shooting up like a weed.”

“Perhaps I’ll soon catch up to you,” Peter declared.

“Perhaps. Clearly, you take after your father,” he had to smirk, “so I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Oh - ha,” Fred remarked with good humor.

“All right,” Scrooge addressed the girls seated at opposite ends of the sofa, “who would like to go first?”

Charlotte barely held back, pressing mouth shut. Eyes gleaming, she glanced hopefully at her sister.

Mathilde looked mildly exasperated in a way typical to older siblings. But she nodded. “Lottie can go on.”

“Yes, I had a feeling that was what was going to happen,” Scrooge chuckled.

He’d kept left hand behind his back since entering the room. As Charlotte bounced to her feet and rushed toward him, he pulled forth the stuffed rabbit he held.

It was made of soft tan fabric, nose and inner ears of pink crushed velvet; delicate stitching for paws, whiskers and eyes. Not wishing to accidentally muss it by wrapping it in paper, he’d settled for tying a large white bow around its throat.

Charlotte gasped in pleasure.

“I thought your Tamlin might do with a companion.”

She reached to take her present reverently. “Her name will be Janet, then.”

“Janet? Not something a bit more fanciful?”

Charlotte only smiled and shook her head, as if this made perfect sense.

“Oh. Well, all right.” He lowered his voice. “She never introduced herself to _me_ , so you’d know better than I.”

Hugging her gift in one arm, Charlotte embraced him by throwing the other around his neck, as he bent forward and dropped to his knee. “Thank you so much, Uncle Ebenezer!”

“You’re quite welcome.” He touched her cheek with his thumb as they parted. “Happy early birthday.”

Getting up, he retrieved the small parcel left leaning behind him. “And so this then is for you, Mathilde…”

She rested it in her lap and peeled the paper back, revealing a small lightweight easel.

“I thought it might make your trip to the seaside more enjoyable. You’ve mentioned before you prefer to do your sketching from life. You can set it up to take in whatever view is available.”

“It’s...it’s wonderful.” Mathilde’s eyes were wide and bright, taken completely by surprise. “It’ll be perfect for that, simply perfect.”

Setting it aside she shot up in unabashed, energetic manner rare for her - she hugged him tightly. “Thank you so, so much, Uncle! I’ll take my paints with me, and do something just for you.”

“Oh, only if you want to.” He stroked her hair gently, warmed by her response. “I’m glad to see you like it so much.”

“There you are, darling,” Fred remarked to his wife as she entered the room. “You’ve just missed the presentation.”

“What is there to miss, when I still witness the results.” She looked between the girls, each attention thoroughly captivated by presents they were still holding. “You’ve done very well, Mr. Scrooge.”

“Not at all; I’m only too happy to see them thus so.” He watched the children, then turned to their mother. “And it’s good no one appears overly put out over having to share the happy occasion. Unless you plan another celebration during your holiday?”

“Oh no, we’ve been doing it this way for the last five years,” Fred explained. “We’ve always liked to go away during the summer and it’s simply easier to do it at home. Besides, with sisters whose birthdays are less than a month apart, why not have their day together.”

“Although this might be the last time,” Emilia remarked. “Next year, Mathilde will be thirteen. She should begin having a more grown-up party - not something shared with a much younger sister.”

Her soft voice must’ve carried. Mathilde went still where she sat, smile faltering.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Scrooge said. “I was only just thinking how next year I might like to take the girls with me, together, on a joint celebratory outing. If, of course, that would be allowed.”

“Perhaps,” Fred went easily. “What sort of outing?”

“I’m not sure - a visit to the Gardens at Kew, perhaps?” He kept tone indifferent, to cover how he was making this up on the spot. “A long and lovely carriage ride, an afternoon’s high tea - but, if that would contradict with your own plans…”

Emilia’s eyes had distinctly narrowed. The rest of her expression unreadable, she said nothing.

“It’s not for a year, so of course we haven’t made any plans yet.” Fred laughed. “I’m sure before then we can all figure something out.”

“Yes, of course - Peter, could I borrow you a moment?” Scrooge felt it timely to put distance between himself and Emilia. “Let’s go into the next room...you know we have a matter to discuss.”

“Right!” Peter went brightly, understanding at once what he meant.

He glanced at the parents - with no attempt made to stop him he went into the adjacent drawing room, Peter closely following.

“So, here we are then,” Scrooge said. “The beginning of summer, your holiday about to commence. You remember my promise to you?”

“You had better believe it, Uncle! How could I forget?”

“Good. How much have you saved?”

“I’ll run upstairs and grab it to show you, shall I?” Peter offered.

“Yes, all right.”

He nodded; the boy swiftly went.

Scrooge stood there patiently, glancing around as he waited. He discovered Ricky had turned up, lingering in the doorway, peering at him intently across the corner.

“Hello there, Ricky - something on your mind?”

The younger boy had been uncharacteristically quiet. Scrooge hoped it didn’t mean something was wrong.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ricky declared. “You’re doubling Peter’s savings. He told me about it.”

“Yes,” he smiled narrowly, “I’m sure that he did. But there’s no need to talk as if it should be a great secret. There’s nothing circumspect about it. Merely a deserved reward for industrious behavior.”

Behind him he heard Peter returning; he kept his eyes on Ricky. The boy’s mouth was set sullenly, his stare intent.

“What about me?” Ricky demanded. “I’ve been industrious too. Ask anybody. What do I get?”

“You can _get lost_ , Ricky,” Peter snapped.

His younger brother glared, but he spun and ran back to the parlor.

“That was rude of you,” Scrooge remarked.

“He’s only sore that you’re giving the girls presents, and me money, but he’s not getting anything,” Peter retorted, unabashed. “Lingering with his hand out, greedy little blighter. You _didn’t_ bring something for him, did you?”

“It’s not as if these are special presents: Charlotte and Mathilde are having birthdays. And now I’m fulfilling a promise that I made on yours. Ricky can sulk all he likes - he’s certainly old enough to understand, and to wait his turn.”

“Good.” Peter looked satisfied. He held up the little cloth pouch he’d brought. “You’re not gonna make me share this with him either, are you?”

Scrooge contemplated asking Peter who might be the greedy sibling now, but thought better of it.

“It will be your money, to spend however you like. It isn’t my place to instruct you what to do with it. I will _advise_ you to try making it last your entire holiday, rather than spending all at once on any particular elaborate frivolity.” He paused. “And, I will say: it would be a nice gesture from the oldest brother to do a little something for his siblings - but still, it’s entirely up to you.”

Requisite sternness received, Peter pulled a slight face.

Leaving him to mull that in silence, Scrooge held out his hand. The pouch received, he tugged it open; pouring into his palm.

“Oh my,” he mused, sifting coins apart by a fingertip. “Well done, you.”

“It was so hard,” Peter complained. “Every time I had to watch the rest of my mates enjoying their serials and toffees. I had to think twice on every ha’penny.”

“There will be plenty of magazines to buy and read at the seaside, and certainly plenty of candies,” Scrooge stated calmly. “Plenty of other things too, I imagine. You’ll be glad you waited.”

He absently rubbed a speck off the last coin he counted. “The total you have here comes to seven shillings, eight pennies, and three farthings.”

Considering Peter probably got a few pennies for pocket money, and ten shillings could be a poor man’s weekly income, it was well done indeed.

Scrooge slipped his free hand into his wallet. Retrieving that fourth farthing, he added it to the pile.

“We’ll call that interest.”

“Thank _you_ , sir,” Peter said earnestly.

“Do you think your parents would permit you to walk to my house by yourself, tomorrow?”

“Yeah sure, probably.”

“Ask them before I leave, to be certain. If there’s no objection, come by in the morning and I’ll give you what you’re owed then.”

He handed the ungainly pile back to Peter, who took it with both hands, hesitating.

“Do you think...I mean, should I write the amount down?” he wheedled. “To be on the safe side?”

“Seven shillings, nine pennies.” Scrooge had to smile. “You really think that _I_ would forget?”

“No; course not, you’re right,” Peter acknowledged.

He looked again over his hoard, enthusiasm showing as he no doubt daydreamed of the many things and merry times he would find with it.

Then, like a scene-change in a magic lantern show - a flicker in his face. Expression shifting from some rising and otherwise hidden thought.

“Uncle Ebenezer.” He hesitated, no longer looking at the coins; not quite lifting his gaze. “There’s something...I wanted to talk to you about.”

Scrooge's brow furrowed. As he was opening his mouth to ask what he meant, the boy’s mother appeared behind them.

“The table is ready,” she declared.

He glanced to Peter, but his face had already closed off again. The opportunity was missed.

There was nothing for it. Both followed Emilia’s lead into the dining room.

They sat down in the same places, were served familiar dishes; these weekly dinners routine with little variation, and that was never a bad thing. The children speaking one after another, the parents attempting to hold semblance of order. Everyone happy to learn what their visitor had been up to as they were to update him with events of their own.

There’d been time when coming to this house filled him with apprehension. He remembered it, as he remembered being amused by picture-books of simple rhymes when he was a child - now he could turn those pages a hundred times, puzzle over the flat drawings, remember but never feel the same; unable to imagine again feeling the same. In the same way, he remembered the fear that visiting Fred’s house once instilled in him.

The place at their table was his now, as much as anything he’d ever owned - maybe more. Money had no true attachment; a coin left his fingers and instantly ceased to be his. When Fred’s family was far from sight they still thought of their Uncle Ebenezer.

A highlight of his week, to turn up and be met with such gladsome looks. He knew he’d miss it terribly.

After dinner Peter shook hands, briskly promising to attend him on the morrow. The girls clung with fond farewells – Charlotte unrestrained, Mathilde emotional despite herself.

Ricky kept his distance; shot his great-uncle a scowl, before turning and running up the stairs.

His mother exhaled, too quiet for a proper sigh. “Don’t mind him. He’ll feel differently in no time. Then he’ll regret his rudeness.”

Scrooge made no response. He tried to ignore an uncertain flutter in his chest - thinking on those he’d never said goodbye to before they were lost to him.

“I wish that you weren’t going, Fred,” he couldn’t keep from complaining, joining his nephew in the study. “I find it very inconsiderate of you; to have lured me into your life only to leave me abandoned for better part of the summer.”

“I know.” Fred chortled. “It’s a few weeks-”

“Well over a month.”

“-but I’m certain you’ll barely notice we’re gone.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t so. And I think that you know better.”

Fred undauntedly sat in his armchair. “Well. It _is_ a regular holiday - maybe next year, you can join us.”

Scrooge stilled in taking the armchair across, the better to give his nephew a frown. “Oh, very amusing.”

“I’m completely serious.” Fred lifted his hands. “It’s a lovely cottage, we’d fit you in easily - long as you didn’t mind sharing a room with the boys. I know that they wouldn’t. Mind, that is.”

He stared at the invitation. It was the only thing he could do.

“Can you even _picture_ me at the seaside?”

“Not at all. Precisely why it’d be a delight to make it happen!” Fred grinned. “But, I know: you’re going to say you’re still far too busy with your work.”

“Actually, no,” he admitted, fidgeting; adjusting his jacket after sitting, compulsively straightening his cuffs. “At least...not the brunt of it. Not any more.”

Fred’s expression changed with realization. “So it’s official then.”

“It is.” He made himself stop tugging his sleeve. “The new owners will not take over my offices until the fall. And, I’m retaining Miss Belle in my employ - I’ll find _something_ for her to do. It seems unfair to deprive her of the income.”

“Plus you’d be depriving yourself of her enjoyable company.”

Ignoring that, he continued, “However the last deed has been transferred, the last debt settled, the last account closed. As of this week, I have officially put my name to the final bit of paperwork concerning Scrooge and Marley business. It is...done.”

He hesitated, the finality so recent it didn’t seem real.

Five months, to single-handedly untangle an operation of near twenty years. He supposed it was commendable. Shame that left him with a hole in his life a heavily-armed warship could sail through.

“And the lawsuits? Those have been settled also?”

“Ah - no,” he went dismissively. “Those I expect to linger on well into next year.”

“Oh.” Seeing he wasn’t to be bothered, Fred recovered and hid his disappointment. “All right. So you’re officially fully retired, Uncle - congratulations!”

“Thank you.” He nodded; then pressed, “All the more reason to be irritated for your taking this very moment to leave the city - I could distract from the existential uncertainty by hovering indulgently around your children.”

Fred laughed a little. “You’ll have our absence to work out who you are without your business.”

“I shudder to think.”

“You’ll simply have to find a hobby - you do know what those _are_ , don’t you, Uncle?”

“I do recall having once grazed past the topic between curiosities mentioned in an article of some publication.”

“Now that’s a thought, you could write! Or, volunteer to be the editor of something.”

Scrooge made a face, and a displeased sound.

“You could find a club to join.”

 _That_ got an almost-sneer and a flicking gesture with one hand.

“You could buy a horse,” Fred suggested, not to be put out.

“For racing or riding?”

“I don’t know, either. Both.”

“ _Both_ I find equally unappealing.”

“Maybe you could take up horticulture. Dog-breeding. Birdwatching.” Fred paused his seemingly random input, snapping his fingers. “You could collect something! My mother, I know she did a few; in her amateur studies of the sciences.”

That drew a fond smile. “Yes. She used to gather butterflies and other insects, pin them to these meticulously labeled cards. She stopped though, after I begged her. It upset me, when I realized she had to first kill every specimen she collected.”

Fred gave a sheepish grimace.

“Yeah...she didn’t, actually. She must have only told you she’d stopped. I have some framed beetles and moths from her, upstairs. They’re dated shortly after I was born.”

“Oh.” Stymied, he cleared his throat. “In my defense, it must be very easy to conceal something from a twelve year old.”

“Particularly one that’s trusting,” Fred offered kindly.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss twinge of embarrassment. “And - there were so few avenues open to her, for experimenting and further acquisition of knowledge. Once she became a wife, and a mother, I’m sure it was...difficult, finding the time.”

“Not to mention having to work around what was socially acceptable.”

“Oh, that was no bother to her.” He smiled again, shrewdly. “You know, she used to disguise herself as a boy in order to sneak into lectures.”

“Did she?” Fred sat up, eyes widening in astonished delight. “Did she really?”

“Oh yes. Starting around when she was seventeen or so. She had to, ahem...conceal her figure with layering; hide her hair under a cap. But she was never found out.”

“That’s remarkable! Oh, I wish I’d known that sooner! I would have asked her about it, when she was still alive. Do you know what sort of lectures she went to?”

“Medicine, I think.” He felt a different twinge; bittersweet pain tugged at him, whenever he thought about Lottie. “She wanted to be a doctor. Not a practicing one - the type that devises studies, develops new treatments.”

He paused, resting chin against his hand. “I can’t but wonder - what would the world be like? If she had been afforded the same opportunities I was.”

If their places had been swapped. If he’d been the one kept home, told to behave and be silent. If Lottie was encouraged to pursue what she liked, given an education suited to her intellect.

It was hard not to think, morosely, it’d be a much better world.

Fred had become withdrawn, pensive. Who knew what these revelations about his departed mother meant, to him.

“If she was never caught, then why didn’t she keep going? Why not become a doctor, then?”

“I asked her that myself. Around...around the time of her marriage,” Scrooge admitted. He’d asked it rather heatedly, though he wouldn’t tell Fred that. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t really understand it for years. But I think I...I might now.”

He straightened in his seat. “She said that she’d realized the only way she could be a doctor was if she gave up on being _herself_. That, ultimately, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.”

Fred frowned. “What do you think she meant by that?”

“She would have had to go on living in secret - pretending to be a man, I assume. She was always very opinionated; she probably found the reality too...frustrating.”

“She didn’t want to be a doctor if she couldn’t live as a woman,” Fred realized. “If it meant she had to sacrifice ever being a wife and mother.”

“Something to that effect, yes.”

He hadn’t understood how it was even a hardship. If that was the ‘sacrifice’, surely it could be made easily.

But trying to see the burdens of another’s life hadn’t been something he was capable of, even for his sister. If he knew the world wasn’t fair - he knew it coldly, without feeling. He’d been blind to her struggles as to so much else.

Lottie had been cleverer, braver - and more loving. She wanted to be surrounded by people she cared for, that she could be honest with. She wanted to be known for who she was; for her accomplishments, whatever they were, to be recognized.

She would’ve rather limited herself, than built something under the weight of a lie.

He didn’t know if he would’ve made the same decision. But at last he recognized the strength it’d taken to make it. He appreciated his sister for what she was, brain and heart. He could truly honor her memory; pass the whole of her on to her son.

Fred laughed to himself, softly. “What an amazing person she was, to be able to make that choice. Even more amazing than I ever knew.”

Neither of them quite looked at the other - gazes going to the side, downwards, each half-lost in his separate thoughts.

“The world is changing. At times rapidly, it seems. Do you think these days they might allow women to be doctors? That girls in school right now might be given that chance - if they liked?”

“Anything is possible, Uncle,” Fred offered in earnest.

“Yes. I suppose that you’re right.”

Though he wasn’t entirely satisfied with that answer.

Dropping hand again, he looked at his nephew carefully. “You know…if your own daughters ever find themselves positioned against the expectations of society, the way that your mother often was, I should hope they would have your support.”

Fred blinked, gave an odd smile. His girls were young yet; maybe he hadn’t thought about it.

“I’d hope so, too. We’ll see what happens. Although so far there’s no sign of Charlotte going against the grain – suppose she doesn’t take much after her namesake. Mathilde, on the other hand…well, I hardly need to tell you. It’s already obvious she’s your favorite.”

“Is it?” He hadn’t precisely realized that himself. “I should think it common knowledge that when it comes to children, one should not have favorites.”

“One _shouldn’t_ ,” Fred emphasized. “But, one often does, regardless.”

“Oh?” He challenged, “Which of your children is your favorite, then?”

Fred kept a perfectly mild and reasonable expression. “If I did perhaps have one, I would never say it out loud.”

Scrooge huffed a laugh at that. “Of course.”

The sound of soft footsteps drew their attention - they looked up as Emilia swanned in.

“I do hope I’m not intruding on anything important.” Her voice made it impossible to tell if that was indeed her hope, or the very opposite.

“Not particularly,” Scrooge managed a mutter.

“Ah, I think you must be here as a hint, my dearest.” Fred smiled knowingly. “Does the hour grow too late? You want me to hurry up in bidding our guest good evening.”

“What I want does not signify. Of course I would never be so rude as to make such demands. However,” the shift in tone was subtle, “I do remind you we have many things to accomplish tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes.” Fred chuckled, got to his feet - his uncle stood as well. “There’s no arguing with a close timetable. She _is_ right - beastly number of things to do, with four children to pack for.”

“You didn’t do any of that in advance?” Considering their mother’s meticulousness, he was surprised.

“Oh, we’ve tried in the past. Somehow it always seems to make things worse. Wrong things getting put away too early, and so forth.” Fred shrugged. “It’s wonderful chaos, Uncle; every time. And just think, next year you could be a part of it!”

“I’ll...consider it. But I do hope you all have an enjoyable time. I suppose, barring any chance encounters throughout London in the coming weeks, then - this is farewell. Until you return.”

“Yes,” Fred agreed. “It’s a shame we can’t manage dinner with the three of us, before Emilia and I leave.”

“It is a shame,” Emilia interjected, somewhat crisply. “However, it simply can’t be done.”

In this rare instance, Scrooge knew not to take it personally. His scant knowledge on housekeeping still gave enough insight to gather, for one committed to proper form, planning another dinner during fortnight’s worth of last minute travel preparations would be a nightmare.

“I wish I could say I’d come to see you, between now and then,” Fred went mournfully. “Who knows if I’ll find a moment. Around this time is when they decide at work I’m suddenly crucial, my taking off sending them into a panic.”

“The last thing I want is for you to insert me into your schedule, at your inconvenience,” Scrooge protested. “You’ve enough worry right now.”

Fred made a sound of realization. “We _are_ having people over in the afternoon, that last Saturday. For one of Emilia’s organizations, very informal - bit of a sit-down meeting over tea. Darling; that wouldn’t be too hard on you, would it?” he inquired with hopeful politeness. “Making sure there’s an extra cup and saucer for Uncle Ebenezer?”

The suggestion didn’t incense her; but her expression, on another, would be overture to dismissive scoff.

“It would not be difficult. But Fred - I think your desires, while understandable, have you grasping outside sensibility. I’m sure the last thing that Mr. Scrooge would enjoy is having to listen to an afternoon’s discussion on things such as orphan relief and the proposed allocation for church funds.”

Months later, her opinion on him had hardly changed. Regardless of what he’d said or done, or how he tried.

An offended heat shot through his blood, pushing him to impulsiveness.

“No,” he retorted, “as a matter of fact, that would interest me very much.”

Her eyebrows rose, slightly. “Truly?”

“Yes. Now that I’m retired, I have time to look into where and how I would like to plan my own contributions to charity. Thus far the only group I’ve worked with is Twaites and Langley. Gaining perspective from a different organization would certainly be useful to me.”

There was a pause; it seemed she could think of no further objections. It was impossible to tell if he’d bothered her, or impressed her: she was again unreadable.

“Well. In that case, I will send you a card.”

“Splendid.” Fred beamed. “We’ll look forward to having you again, then.”

“Yes,” Scrooge declared. “I look forward to it, likewise.”

It was only after he’d left and begun walking home, that triumph faded. That he fully processed what he’d invited himself to.

An afternoon’s tea, with strangers he’d be expected to converse with, and who could be aware of his history and reputation; in closed quarters where he couldn’t possibly avoid them.

He might have made a terrible mistake, in the name of indulging Fred and showing up Emilia.

 _Well,_ he thought, _there’s no undoing it now._

No matter what alleged chaos might have reigned over their household, Peter did still manage to slip away the next afternoon and make his way over.

It was to be hoped the boy had gotten the permission he was supposed to - though in the bright light of next day, Scrooge found himself too afraid to ask.

He gave Peter his promised money; noticing his gratitude was rather subdued. That strange mood he’d displayed yesterday had returned - whatever it was he’d been trying to say before dinner.

He scrutinized Peter’s face.

“Would you like to sit down for a while? I could have my maid make tea. And there might be some gingerbread stashed away.”

“I…” Peter fidgeted uncomfortably. “Uncle, there’s...there’s something I really should tell you.

He breathed in with care. “All right. What is it?”

“D’you remember the present you gave me, after Christmas? That model castle?”

“Oh - yes; yes of course I do. Why? Did you ever get around to putting it together?”

Peter went from nervous to crestfallen.

“No. I never got to build it at all. I...snuck it into my trunk, brought it back to school with me. I wanted to show it off to my mates.”

“I see.” Comprehension dawning, Scrooge folded his arms. “And how did that go?”

The boy’s expression became more wretched.

“Some of the pieces were lost right away, others got broken...I held onto what was left, praying I could put it right somehow. Then there was a dormitory inspection. The whole thing got pitched in a bin.”

“Your mother did warn you, saying you shouldn’t take it to school. Do you perhaps now understand why?”

Peter couldn’t speak. He nodded his head mournfully. His lower lip trembled.

“Oh. You’re more upset than I realized,” Scrooge observed, dumbfounded. “Did the castle really mean that much to you?”

“It isn’t that.” Peter’s voice grew small, then broke as it rose again. “I...I wasn’t expecting to _like_ you so much! I thought that you’d be...stern, and stuffy. But you take us on adventures, and you listen when we talk, and you give us such nice things, and you’re _fun_. And...and I was really looking forward to seeing how the castle was when it was put together and everything, but I ruined it! It was so stupid. I feel awful. I’m sorry, Uncle Ebenezer; I’m really sorry.”

His mouth parted, astonished; though he hadn’t a clue what to say. That outpouring of emotion had completely thrown him.

“I was also looking forward to seeing it assembled, myself,” he managed at length. “Particularly the drawbridge.”

“I’m so, so sorry, Uncle.”

Thirteen was still young, no matter what one might pretend - and he sounded like nothing so much as a miserable child.

“Oh, _Peter_.” Scrooge drew a quiet sigh. “Please, catch your breath. I’m not angry with you. I admit, I do think it a shame that happened. But hopefully you’ve learned from this. You’ll know to be more careful with your things.”

“Y-yes.” He sniffed, confused. “You’re...not angry with me though? It was a really nice gift, and I was...scared you’d think I didn’t appreciate it.”

“You made a mistake. You are young, it happens.” Scrooge put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Consider yourself fortunate: all you did was break a toy, and no one was hurt or disappointed other than yourself.” With solemn irony, he said, “If that is the _worst_ thing you ever do in your life, you’ll grow to be a great man.”

“My mother might not agree,” the boy said bleakly.

“Well. Perhaps not. Does she know what happened? Does your father?”

“No. I kept being afraid they’d ask about the castle, but they never did.”

“It might have slipped their minds.” Dropping his hand, he thought. “If I got a replacement, they’d be none the wiser.”

Peter couldn’t believe it. “You...you’d really do that?”

“I did so want to see if that drawbridge would go up and down with its little pulleys and chain, as in the box’s pictures,” he mused aloud. “I won’t know until I go back if the shop still has that model. However if they do, I think I’ll get another...to be safe though we’ll keep it here, at my house.”

He faced Peter. “You can come and visit whenever you like, and we’ll build it together. I even promise to wait on starting until you’ve returned. How does that sound?”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Peter stammered, gradually overjoyed.

“Good. That settles it, then.”

“And I...I promise you sir, from now on I’ll be very careful with things that I own. Especially if they come from you.”

“I know that you will,” he replied without hesitation. He offered Peter his hand.

The lad looked at it a moment and then, he leaned in. He wrapped arms lightly around his great-uncle for a hug, resting his head against him.

With fond smile, Scrooge returned the embrace.

The world could be so harsh on the happiness of youth. He looked no further than his own life for sobering demonstration what loss of that happiness too soon could bring.

There were men aplenty to pull a child back with sternness. It didn’t have to be him. He could be - wished to be - something else.

When Peter left, rather than saying farewell at the door Scrooge walked with him out to the gate.

Peter had recovered, more or less, carrying head high again. Doing his best to act the youth rather than the boy, perhaps feeling sheepishness over his behavior.

Everyone had their pride, it could be supposed. He played along, waving goodbye with equally composed restraint.

He stood outside his gate; watching Peter’s retreating back as he headed home with hands in his pockets.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to see that Marty lingered nearby - watching him, just as he watched Peter.

Marty slunk closer. Ever since the scolding regarding his treatment of Jenny, there’d been slight wariness about him.

“Who was that? One of your nevvy’s lads?”

“Yes. His eldest, Peter,” Scrooge responded without looking at him. “They’re about to leave on their summer holiday.”

“Must be nice. Getting to take off when the streets get hot. Seems everyone with money does.”

“I don’t. I never leave.”

“Were you born around these parts then, Mr. Scrooge?”

“No,” he said sarcastically. “I wasn’t born at all. I grew up from between cracks in the pavement, like an oddly-formed and pernicious type of plant.”

Marty snorted. “I’d about believe it,” he remarked, in not quite enough an undertone.

Scrooge’s mouth thinned - not annoyance but absentminded realization. It occurred how little he knew about this semi-constant presence near his boots.

Tilting his head he turned, fixing the boy with a studying look.

“What about you, Marty? Were _you_ born in London?”

“Sure I was, sir. Just like my father, and his father, and I bet his father before him.”

“And what does your father do for a living?”

“He’s a day-laborer. Maintenance and the like. Sometimes folk want him for work on their houses, but mostly he picks up stuff from the city.”

“When you get older I suppose you’ll do the same.”

“That’s what my mother seems to think,” Marty said shortly.

He at once caught the derision lurking. “It isn’t what you want, though. Is it?”

He knew it reflected badly on him that he felt surprise.

Still, Marty’s thoughts never seemed to go past his next pay. The boy was uneducated, content to remain so. What more could he be hoping for, then, out of life?

“I wanna go work on a train,” he declared, with a confidence Scrooge hadn’t heard from him in awhile.

“Oh?” Out of his depth, he gamely asked, “What sort of work?”

“Any kind! There’s all sorts - loading freight, shoveling coal, being a pointsman, or a ticket inspector or even a train manager!”

“You know all about it, then,” he offered.

“Sure do. I hang around the yard and railways whenever I can. I like trains,” he stated. “Some day maybe I’ll get to see the whole country, riding the rails from one end to the other.”

It was an oddly romantic notion, in an offbeat way. He pictured it and couldn’t help but smile.

The tow-headed scrap of an urchin, leaving the dust of London behind him for the grand unknown. He could be the hero in a young readers’ adventure.

“That is your ambition, then? To make that your life?”

“Yeah. Don’t need no letters or figures, to do that,” Marty said, somewhat hotly. “Just how to count a bit and work the equipment. They can start training me in a few more years.”

“You have a plan then. That’s good.”

“My mother doesn’t seem to think so. She keeps telling me to get it out of my head. Doesn’t want me hanging around the trainyard any more than around you. No one in my family wants to hear about it.”

“Well you’ve already made it quite clear you have your own mind, when it comes to listening to your mother,” Scrooge went carefully.

Marty didn’t reply. He gazed into the middle distance, blue eyes still keen and bright. Thinking, perhaps, of the future he wanted; of his dreams.

To a child there was no difference between possible and impossible - until the world saw fit to teach them otherwise.

The mood Scrooge still felt from dealing with Peter earlier began to carry over. The desire to encourage; to protect the hope of innocent hearts.

“Marty,” he went with utmost sincerity, “if you have a dream that’s important to you, then you should continue to pursue it. Many people will tell you what you should expect out of life, but you’re still young: the only thing that lies before you is opportunity.”

The small boy lifted his head to look up at him, curiously.

“Oh yeah?” It was the most earnest he’d ever sounded. “You really do think?”

“Yes I do.” He nodded firmly. “I cannot say I have been right about everything in my time, but this I know for certain. There’s no reason to let the words of any naysayers get in your way, if you truly believe this is a future that will make you happy.”

Marty never appeared to be an especially sad individual. He was eager, unflagging; determined and excitable.

But this was the first time there’d been such a bright grin on his dirt-smudged face.

“Shame you don’t travel, sir,” the boy remarked. “Otherwise I might say that someday you’ll come aboard, and I’ll be there to take your ticket.”

“If you do find yourself employed in such a manner, one day, then you will have to send word to let me know.” He smiled back at him. “I will gladly find some journey to undertake, to have the pleasure of handing my ticket to you.”

It was a visual some might find absurd. An elder businessman, standing there on the pavement, making promises to a ragged child from the street.

But they were free to think what they liked.

Ebenezer Scrooge meant that promise with every bone in his body – one day, he even hoped, he’d be able keep it.


	14. A Chance and Hope

_"Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone."_

_"I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!"_

_"How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day."_

_It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow._

_"That is no light part of my penance," pursued the Ghost. "I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer." - Stave One: Marley’s Ghost_

One bright afternoon in May of 1844, Ebenezer Scrooge embarked upon something that was for him very unusual.

He walked to his intended destination; pausing to discreetly check the card in his pocket against the address. Not that he needed to - he had it memorized. Still, assurances in such matters never hurt.

He attempted to set his features to calm composure and friendliness - two states he often had difficulty with, never mind at same time.

Then he stepped up to the modest townhouse and knocked on the door.

The maid that answered had an uncertain, even startled expression. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, you may - is Miss Thomasina Thwaites in?”

There was an awkward pause.

Normally such inquiry from someone who wasn’t dressed as a tradesman provided the unstated understanding he was there to pay a visit - he would be responded to in the affirmative, ushered within and taken to the morning room.

Or so he believed. It’d been so long since he’d visited anyone on a purely social call. Let alone first-time visit to the home of a stranger. He knew the expectations of etiquette by what he’d gathered throughout the years, not by much direct personal experience.

In the brief silence that followed, he was left wondering if he’d somehow done something wrong.

The maid was staring at him blankly. Neither of them seemed entirely sure how to proceed.

“I believe that I might have been expected,” he offered, trying not to make it into a question.

This brought the maid back to herself. “Oh! Yes. You were, sir...I remember now, do forgive me...please sir, come inside.”

She seemed eager to move past the misstep. He was brought within, attended to in proper manner with a smoothness ignoring everything that happened moments before.

Rather than respond with the irritation he often had toward unexpected difficulties, he was too relieved.

He followed down a short hallway, around a corner to small room full of busy prints and floral decorations - obviously a space intended to be examined by guests.

“Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, ma’am,” the maid announced.

Her mistress was seated in a chintz armchair, hands folded and ankles crossed. A glad expression crossed her face, eyes brightening.

“Oh, good; yes, Margaret, show him in - Mr. Scrooge, it’s so delightful to finally meet you in person.”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Thwaites - and perhaps too generous,” he returned, taking the loveseat across from her. “But as we’ve been corresponding now for months, I was of course gratified to receive your card included with your last note. How could I do anything but respond to your invitation?”

He made it sound easier than it was. But he’d a week to brace for the particular draining anxiety that was social uncertainty. Old Miss Thwaites had only been nice to him, and he did enjoy writing to her.

If speaking face to face turned out to be _less_ enjoyable, well; he’d make excuses in the future. Trying this one time, endeavoring to act in normal fashion, hopefully wouldn’t strike him dead on the spot.

“Well, I’m glad you did - I hoped you might, of course, but I wouldn’t necessarily expect…”

She trailed off, in what he recognized as the manner of one uncertain what words to use.

She was short, like her nephew, though where his frame ran toward stoutness she was proportionally slender. She seemed to shrink slightly into the overstuffed chintz, on verge of being swallowed up.

She’d an earnest if plain face, prone to nervous blinking. At a stab he’d put her age around sixty. Her hair was so closely pinned beneath a wrapped cap he’d no idea what it looked like; it was almost entirely possible that, like her nephew, she wore it sheared clean from her scalp. Her brown skin wrinkled heavily near her eyes, making it difficult to see the whites of them - though their focus remained sharp in spite of her age.

Avoiding eye contact she fussed with what was on the table between them.

“You’ll take a cup of tea, of course? And a slice of cake?”

“Oh - well, I…”

“I’m sure that you recognize Dido?” She indicated with a glance. “That’s her favorite spot. She sleeps away a good part of every day there. I envy such repose, at times.”

His eyes followed to where dark grey cat curled between embroidered and tasseled cushions on the floor, in a perfectly appointed sunbeam. The cushions had slight indent beneath the furred shape, testament to frequent use.

The sleek creature had the lazily regal poise of a sultana lounging on a divan - eyes opened into slits to regard him with indifference.

He smiled in genuine pleasure. “I see your descriptions were not at all misleading. She has matured very well.”

“Yes, she’s my darling,” she cooed, returning to the task at her hands. “You _will_ have a piece of cake? It’s lemon. I freshly-baked it myself.”

“It does look very good...but I do hope you didn’t go to the trouble simply on my behalf.”

“Oh no, no. It’s not a trouble. I bake one every Monday evening. Tuesdays are always my at-homes,” she explained.

“Oh, I see,” he understood, relieved. “You normally receive many visitors, then?”

It was a polite, perfunctory inquiry. She faltered before replying.

“Well, no...I don’t normally see that many.” Her voice understated, she didn’t let it interrupt her from slicing the cake. “Being as I never married, and I don’t go out very often…”

She stopped short of outright saying it: she didn’t have much in the way of friends.

It wasn’t uncommon with spinsters. Women could not join clubs; with no husband or father to chaperone her she’d no way to circulate in public. Any friends she’d had as a girl might move, or drift apart after marrying and developing new obligations.

An unmarried woman could go out of course - she could go shopping and to parks and galleries all she liked. But there were few options to start _talking_ to people; without introductions, no proper way to exchange cards and invite somebody to see her.

He instantly felt a deep almost mortified sense of pity as the fumbling from her and her maid became understandably clearer - he was her only visitor. They were as muddled by this as he was.

He took his plate of cake with sobered politeness; did dutiful best to make conversation.

The spinster aunt came in distinct variations - it was presupposed some defect of character explained her status, were she not obviously poor or unfortunate-looking. Pious, bossy, bitter; or some harridan-like combination of the three. The few comments Thwaites made about his aunt - that she was fussy and particular - seemed to cast her perfectly in this mold.

Sitting across from her however, Scrooge spotted no signs of an unpleasant personality. He distantly puzzled over it.

The lemon cake was delicious; though Miss Thwaites put too much sugar in his tea without thinking to ask, he feeling too uncertain to stop her. His small-talk was sorely out of practice, but he mustered a decent spell of passing back and forth proper English banalities about how much it was or wasn’t raining.

She of course knew nothing about money; neither of them knew anything about politics; her sheltered lifestyle left her unaware of theatre or art or current events, and she wasn’t much of a reader. They ended up mostly talking about their cats, the same as in their short letters.

He stayed for precisely twenty-five minutes; relieved that he must have accounted it well, for she didn’t seem disappointed about his going.

She did hint tentatively it would be nice to see him the next week.

He promised he would stop by if he had the time, in vague a tone as he could get away with.

He was flustered by the circumstance. He didn’t know if he was obligated to give her his time, and didn’t know if he _wanted_ to either.

He was getting better but kindness, consideration and sympathy were still so very alien to him.

The next Monday evening however he found himself thinking about Thomasina Thwaites, staying up to bake a lemon cake she had to know she’d likely have no one to share with. He thought of her sitting in her chintz armchair with tea prepared; waiting, hopeful, for at-home callers that would never come, week after week after week.

So that Tuesday afternoon, he paid her another visit. It went about exactly as the first.

The Tuesday visit after that was also much of the same. And the Tuesday visit after that.

By fifth visit he felt comfortable enough to let her know, actually, he preferred his tea without sugar.

It’d become another part of his routine. Every Tuesday at three he’d leave his home and walk to hers. Her maid would greet him, lead him to the parlor.

They would sit in the same places. Have their cake and tea. They’d exchange some polite comments about the weather, then pass the next fifteen to twenty minutes telling each other what Dido and Erasmus got up to during the week.

Miss Thwaites, it appeared, was content with her lot in life. Not the least bit adventurous, with meek manner brought about by what he eventually identified as almost painful shyness.

She probably hid in the corner at the parties of her youth or remained home altogether, ill with nerves. If she even spoke to would-be suitors, they likely found her dull or thought her stupid.

But she was not dull, or stupid. She liked things how she’d arranged them, quiet and simple. The only thing really missing was someone to talk to. A visit of obligation from a relative every month or so wasn’t enough to break up stifling loneliness.

He knew what it was like, being set in one’s ways; wishing forlornly for company even while at an utter loss how to go about finding it.

For having little in common otherwise, it was a crucial thing to share.

She wasn’t curious perhaps, or intellectual. However she was _kind_ , an attribute that he’d come to understand wasn’t valued enough by many. He found their weekly visits an enjoyable reassurance.

Not every change perhaps had to be dramatic.

“And how was Old Miss Thwaites, this week?” Belle asked in an offhand way, on a Wednesday in June.

“The same as always. Of seeming good health and fine temperament. Dido tried picking a fight with an escaped spaniel who made the grave error of climbing the back steps. That was the week’s misadventure.”

“Oh no. Did it come to the drawing of blood?”

“No, thankfully. She successfully defended her territory; the interloper was frightened off.”

“Serves him right, the little rat. Every fellow should know you don’t go into a woman’s place uninvited without opening yourself to a good clawing.”

She shut the book she’d been flipping through, setting it aside to peruse another.

Scrooge watched with uncertain smile.

“Are you bored, Miss Belle?”

She looked up with mild surprise. “Not at all. Why? Do you have something you need done?”

“No, I...not at this very moment, no,” he admitted reluctantly.

An admission made too often, lately.

The offices had been shuttered; furniture lingering within left as they were. No reason to pay for things to be carted off, until the new owners readied for possession and the rooms needed to be cleared.

With Scrooge and Marley ended, even he couldn’t find reason to continue going to the office. He worked from home; Belle arriving at the usual hour each morning.

Unfortunately, the answer of what to do with his time still eluded him.

He did his best to keep occupied. He scrutinized investments; he thoroughly researched potential charities and associations and trusts he might get involved in. He drafted every letter twice before penning his reply, answering letters he previously let go ignored so he’d have more to draft. He followed the market and the pound and read the same sections of the newspaper, now as a type of hobbyist since he wasn’t an active participant in the business of business.

The grim sad fact: it was busy-work. Without a clue on other interests to cultivate, he was finding ways to keep from going entirely out of his mind.

Worse, perhaps; Belle appeared determined to quietly humor him.

She organized his private papers to nearly sterilized neatness, helped rearrange his bookshelves; responded to whatever task he invented as if it were perfectly reasonable and important. With serene levels of assistance she humored him as he spent an entire afternoon debating whether to move a picture from one room to another - three days later they did the whole thing over again, with a different picture and a different room.

He kept expecting to see purposelessness, frustration; but no reaction was to be had. She gave every indication of enjoying coming to work each day - no matter how little ‘work’ there was.

She still sorted his mail and retrieved his preferred newspapers; sometimes she read interesting articles aloud to him, as he sat halfway lost in thought. When he went to speak to people about financial matters she still accompanied him, at his side with hands folded; occasionally interjecting to keep conversation moving when it stalled.

They still had teatime together, every day. They’d begun taking long walks often, under pretense of running an errand or desiring change of scenery. They talked on all sorts of matters, nothing in particular.

He kept her around for company. He was forced to confess it, if only to himself. With slim chance of making friends in a natural fashion he’d paid for one, in vein of the ‘companion’ older women employed so as to not find themselves entirely alone.

The pity he’d had towards Miss Thwaites for her situation felt bitterly ironic.

“You know I’ve been meaning to say, Mr. Ebenezer - I’m so glad you’ve started visiting her,” Belle went, as if unknowingly reading his mind. “She seems a dear old thing, by your description. I’m sure it does her good to have someone to talk to each week; besides her maid, I mean.”

He did his best to hide a grimace. “You know, I feel obligated to mention: she can’t be above a decade on me in age. Perhaps we’d better do to stop referring to her as _‘Old’_ Miss Thwaites with such consistency.”

Rather than be thrown by that, Belle responded with knowing smirk.

“Well, you forget. Men as they grow older become ‘ _distinguished; experienced; venerable; wise’_. Women, on the other hand...we simply become ‘ _old’_.”

Leaning temple against one hand, he gestured vaguely with the other; having to concede her point.

She stacked the books she’d been considering, gathering them up. “In any case, at risk of making a comment that could be out of bounds for me-”

“Goodness, coming from _you?_ I wonder what that would sound like.”

She ignored his deadpan. “-but I rather feel someone who describes himself as an old man so often, would have little cause to take offense if others happen to make reference to his age.”

He peered at her, brow creasing. “ _Do_ I refer to myself as such so often?”

She paused, stacked books held against her chest to balance them; merely giving him a look.

“You make it sound as if I about begin every conversation by announcing it.”

“I’m somewhat convinced your mental envisioning of yourself is stooped in half; blind, deaf, crippled by gout, nothing but wrinkles and scraggly white hairs,” she returned dryly.

“Oh, _really_ ,” he scoffed at the exaggeration.

With a shake of her head she left the room, calling her response in passing:

“My point is, you shouldn’t use your age as an excuse for not wanting to do things. You aren’t dead yet!”

Her absence was punctuated by silence. He sunk back in his chair, staring at the assortment of papers and writings spread out across his desk.

A barricade against the reminder there was only so much time.

“No,” he remarked softly, “not dead...yet.”

Belle returned with the afternoon edition of the newspaper.

He’d busied himself with a long column of figures, leaning over them with scrutiny.

“That looks complicated,” she noted. “What’s it for?”

“An estimate on whether the price of corn will continue to rise, factoring in some assorted variables of underlying significance.”

“ _Some_ variables?”

“Eighteen. Industry and the global economy makes for a complicated system.”

“It appears so. What’s the price of corn at now? I didn’t take notice this morning.”

Feeling out of sorts, he couldn’t restrain himself. “I know that you don’t care, Miss Belle,” he muttered. “I’d prefer if you didn’t mock the fact that I do.”

“I care because you care.” More annoyed than offended, she rested hand on her hip. “We may not like all the same things, but I like that _you_ like them. I happen to find that interesting. More than you seem to think.”

He set pen aside, rubbing his wrist. Frowning, he looked up at her in distraction; not giving any response.

She glanced at his hands. With a restrained sigh, she went to fetch basin and towels so he could wash away the smeared ink.

As he attended to that, she took her usual chair in the room; spreading out the newspaper. “Shall I see if there’s anything you might care to hear about?”

“Yes - light articles only, if you please. Certainly nothing political. I haven’t the patience for it today.”

“I did have some notion of that, yeah,” she said in arch manner, voice lowered.

He frowned again; focused harder on his scrubbing. He half-listened as she read aloud through five different short notices, adding her own occasional brief remarks.

The sound of her voice soothed him, easing the temper that’d begun beating against the inside of his skull.

 _“The museum of the Zoological Society has been closed awaiting erection of a building intended for several thousand specimens of stuffed birds and animals, a collection made by Sir S. Raffles in Sumatra; and a curious assortment of horns, these being presents from various persons to the Society.”_ She folded back the paper. “I’d no idea the Zoological Society had their own museum. I’d only ever heard about the menagerie.”

He turned from the basin, straightening his cuffs. “Have you ever been there?”

“What, to the menagerie? Of course not. Do I look like a member of that society to you?”

Considering such societies were limited to men, often aristocratic ones, her sarcasm was forgivable.

“Anyone can visit the menagerie, and the gardens,” he retorted. “You only need track down one of the fellows and get them to write you a note. It’s one of the worst-kept secrets in London.”

“Have _you_ ever visited the menagerie?”

“No.”

“Why not? I mean, if it’s so _easy_ …”

He refused to acknowledge her teasing. “Because I have never wished to go there.”

“Why ever not? You like animals.” She sat up with enthusiasm. “Now there’s an idea! Why don’t you join the Zoological Society?”

“Absolutely not. I know you seem to think I need some sort of pastime-”

“Because you do. You know it as well as I. You only haven’t been able to find one yet.”

“Well.” He paused beside his desk, the better to move hands in emphasis as he spoke disparagingly. “Be that as it may - it’s hardly improvement on my contribution to the world if I use my retirement to cloister myself in meetings over...cigars and brandy snifters; with amateur scholars who’ve likely never had to work a day in their life, indulging in long diatribes on their self-importance.”

“You don’t know that’s what it’d be like. Maybe some truly are learned, interesting men you’d enjoy talking to.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Well, consider applying anyway,” she declared, shaking out the newspaper to put it to rights. “Then you could attend a meeting, see for yourself...if you _are_ right, you still get to visit the menagerie.”

“Or I could skip the application process, save the money of dues, and contact one of the fellows to write me a simple letter of permission.”

“Fine. Do that then, instead. If it’s what you prefer. Though I still think it can’t be achieved so easily as you’d make it sound.”

He pointed at her. “You’re trying to _provoke_ me, aren’t you? You think to steer me into gaining us entry, simply because I’d want to prove what I say.”

“Well - do you, and can you?” she returned, unabashed. “I’ll bet you’ve never gone before for the same reason you’ve never done so much else: because you wouldn’t think on whether or not you wanted to.”

He faltered; uncomfortable because she was right.

Pride and denial both had been his reasonings of a lifetime - it was hard to piece where one ended and the other began.

“You speak as if you know my desires so clearly, Miss Belle,” he went with some snideness, albeit quietly. “What makes you certain that, if I did consider it, I would want to go so very much?”

Sitting back in her chair, she shrugged expansively. She made it sound the most obvious of thoughts:

“Because...I think everyone wants the chance to see an elephant. In person. If they could.”

Scrooge blinked pensively, in spite of himself.

“Oh. They _do_ have elephants there, don’t they. I had forgotten all about that,” he mused. “The Indian species; not the more impressive variant, but still…”

“I truly cannot speak for you, Mr. Ebenezer - nor would I want to, despite what you may think at times.” She pressed a hand near her heart. “For my part, I submit that I would be perfectly satisfied to see a mediocre species of elephant.”

He narrowed his eyes. He never liked feeling he was being maneuvered. Experience however informed him she’d call it for what it was, if he resisted merely for principle’s sake.

He _did_ like animals, and he _had_ never gone to the Zoological Society's gardens for no other reason than for many years, he never thought about going anywhere or doing much of anything.

He thought back, remembering exotic creatures he’d once been enthralled by in illustrations from storybooks.

Everything hurt less, the past and the present, when he could make himself busy - no matter what he was doing.

“Miss Belle,” he said at length, “please prepare my blotter. And, do you know where we’ve left the better stationary paper?”

The only sign of victory was a smile - one that made her eyes light up warmly.

Another thing he’d only admit to himself: when she smiled like that, even he was hard-pressed to remain cross with her.

After some proper if persistent inquiry, the sought-after letter of permission was duly received.

He refrained from gloating; circumstance he was glad for when, without prompting, Belle conceded he’d been correct and it was wrong of her to have ever doubted him.

This admission so frankly made could be suspected to contain a note of ironical humor. Scrooge let it pass.

On a Saturday morning they took a carriage to Regent’s Park. It deposited them at the western end; far from the persistent crush at Marylebone Circus, even further from the crowds no doubt already gathering to queue for the newly-opened sculpture gallery at the Colosseum.

Their disembarking point afforded pleasant stroll past the architectural loveliness of homes built around the park’s edge - though they did have to glance the eyesores of Sussex Place.

As they headed north into the park’s interior, there were already others milling about; enjoying this greenery tucked away at the heart of the city. There were brief movements of eye contact, a polite nod, as strangers walked past one another without speaking.

“You’ve been quiet this morning, Mr. Ebenezer,” Belle remarked. “I don’t know, I would’ve expected perhaps a bit more anticipation. Is everything alright?”

“Mm, yes...I confess my head is a touch out of sorts. Perhaps we should have waited until later in the day for this venture.”

Early had seemed a good idea, for practical concerns. But summer temperatures had mounted with swiftness; even without overcoats and winter shawls, being properly dressed this time of year often felt to be wearing too many layers for comfort.

The warm sun was already beating down on him beneath his hat, not alleviating cloudiness of mind that’d become irritatingly familiar companion. Without the walk to work each morning, the stupor from his sleeping tonic sometimes persisted well into the afternoon.

Understanding what ailed him, Belle frowned lightly. “Do you really still need to be taking that stuff?”

“I’ve been considering weaning myself off it. I am far from enamored with feeling this way...though I also don’t enjoy being exhausted.”

Belle lifted her chin, looking ahead as they walked.

“I know plenty of people do rely on laudanum and other medicines to help them get by,” she went carefully. “I also know plenty of girls who’ve fallen into the gutter with it, and never got back up again.”

“Yes, well; that’s about as likely to be drink as it is laudanum. No offense meant to those you mention.” He rubbed brow distractedly with fingertips, squinting shut his eyes.

She breathed out a quiet puff. “You’re right about that. Unfortunately.”

That vicious cycle of every coin spent to numb the pain, creating more pain in the process. The poorest and lowliest were most susceptible to it. Eight years surrounded by desperate women in a desperate profession - how many she must have futilely watched be their own undoing.

“You are aware that I don’t particularly like being fussed over, Miss Belle,” he said gently.

“I know that you don’t. And I’m not trying to be a busybody. I only-”

“Yes - yes, I know. Your concern comes from place of caring. I appreciate that. Or, I try to; unused to it as I am. But I’m handling things in a manner of my own choosing. Certain...difficulties may have to be accepted, in order to avoid others.”

It was a trade-off he was increasingly less complacent about - considering he hadn’t been pleased to begin with. However he wasn’t certain what else was to be done. Not with such anxious fear of nightmares, still.

Ready to change the subject he lifted his head again, blinking as he readjusted to the light.

And he continued blinking, harder, for across the way he spotted a set of familiar figures.

A tall man, his curly-haired wife, their adolescent daughter, and a boy of about ten years - preciously small even for his age, carried securely in his father’s arms.

At first he wondered if he were suffering a sort of bleary hallucination, distracted mind transforming some other family at the park into a different one.

He realized with horror, he was not. It _was_ the Cratchit family; close enough only one member had to turn their head and the path of their gaze would fall directly on him.

“Oh. Oh no, it can’t be,” he whispered.

What were they even doing there? They were heading northward also; having perhaps come the Camden Town direction, where the home he’d seen had been. Even if they had moved, it may not have been far.

 _Oh good lord_ , he thought, _are they_ also _going to the menagerie?_

The admission fee would’ve been far beyond their means once, never mind achieving permission from a fellow. Their change in circumstance however made it these days entirely possible.

And it was precisely the sort of treat loving parents would want to bestow upon their children; especially after years of deprivations.

“Mr. Ebenezer?” Belle stared at him, worried. “Whatever’s the matter?”

He couldn’t speak to explain it to her. He could barely even think. He could only feel the rising certainty that any moment the Cratchits might recognize him standing there; it sent a pang across his heart to picture how they’d likely look upon their seeing him, if they did.

No - he couldn’t bear it. He simply could not.

Abruptly he turned, practically dove to other side of the nearest structure; a sort of decorative rock arrangement, one of many scattered throughout the park.

Concealed behind he pressed his back to the rough surface, stiffly; heart hammering, he scarcely dared breathe.

An overreaction, to be sure. None of the Cratchits could see through walls.

Well - perhaps he’d cause to wonder a bit, in the case of Mary Cratchit.

Belle appeared, leaning around to gape at him. “What’s gotten into you? What are you doing?”

“Either hide yourself back here as well, or go away,” he ordered in a hiss. He desperately glanced the direction he couldn’t see. “I don’t dare take the risk of them noticing me.”

Belle’s face was wrought with astonished concern. She joined him behind the rock, sidling over.

“Are...are you afraid of them?” she asked, dubious.

“Not precisely,” was his stilted reply.

Turning head she looked the direction they’d fled from - though she also couldn’t see from their hiding place. “Who are they?”

He swallowed thinly.

With reluctant clarity, he recalled the bitter cold of Christmas Eve. The defeated frustration weighing down Bob Cratchit - the rage and pain gleaming within the gaze of his wife. The way even their children reacted to the name ‘Scrooge’ as if he were an ogre.

“That man. He used to work for me,” he managed. “For ten years. I...I wasn’t good to him.”

Belle’s bewilderment faded. She glanced back and forth. “I imagine not,” she had to conclude.

He shut his eyes briefly; opening them again as he forced himself to continue. “Rather than do anything to alleviate his family’s difficulties, I took advantage. Set terms of employment that were anything but fair. I found…opportunity, in their desperation.”

Worse: he took fleeting, cruel amusement.

There was a beat as Belle schooled her composure.

“You don’t want to maybe apologize? I mean, seeing as you’ve crossed paths by chance.”

“Oh no, I...already have. As much as was capable - as much as could ever be apologized for.”

He looked at the ground. Head threatening to spin with a thousand awful details. He persevered, cutting through them.

“I gave him what I felt he was owed; what was more than earned, financially. I did in the end the only thing I could for their peace of mind - I removed my presence from their lives entirely.” Swallowing again, he nodded to himself. “I am quite sure the last thing any of them should ever want is to meet me again.”

She spoke softly, noting: “The last thing _you_ want, also.”

How could he deny it? He tilted his head, unable to keep from giving a pleading look.

“I have many acts to be ashamed about, Miss Belle. I know some consequences I cannot avoid facing. But others…”

She didn’t respond. He watched her with silent, uneasily vibrating anxiety.

Finally she dropped her head, nodding. “Well. Perhaps I can understand. No point in talking if there's nothing to be gained by it.”

He exhaled. “It would only do harm. I am sure...if I were in their place, I would be eager to forget.”

Belle nodded again. Rather than look angry, she appeared somber and thoughtful.

“If they’re going to the same destination, it would be impossible to avoid them,” he pointed out into the lingering silence.

She drew to her full height - slight though that was. At prospect of some action to take, her composure reasserted itself.

“Find someplace to sit down. I’ll see where they’re headed, come back and find you.”

He attempted to stammer objection - swiftly she cut over him, “Have you any better idea what to do about this, sir? You can’t live behind this rock forever. Now can you?”

“No.” His stance drooped. “No, I suppose you are right.”

She paused on verge of leaving. It took a moment to realize her smile was intended as one of reassurance. He was in no state to expect kindness from anyone - not even her.

“It’ll be fine,” she promised. “The day’s hardly over yet.”

“Yes,” was the only thing he could say in reply.

After she’d gone he counted to fifty, slowly. He wandered away from the ornamental boulder, moving in a straight line, not daring to look back.

Eventually he found a slatted wooden bench. Sitting down, he tried to make himself feel comfortable. A queasy unease lingered because of this sudden near run-in with the Cratchits.

And yet, he gradually realized, underneath that the effects of his tonic still had not worn off.

The sun already felt high in the sky. The summer warmth settled like a dizzy blanket, along with the sweet scent from the grass and foliage, the faraway murmur of occasional voices. He was in the middle of a sea of green - an island unto himself.

He blinked once, then forced himself to keep his eyes open.

Couples strolled under parasols. He could hear children’s laughter as they played, the barking of a dog. Ahead of him further down was a shallow charity fountain for people to toss their pennies into.

A detached haziness came over what he saw and heard, as he sat there unaware how much time might be passing; an undefinable distance from his surroundings even as he took them in.

And then without warning Jacob Marley slid into view, sitting down beside him to his left.

“Quite something, isn’t she,” he remarked with a laugh, “that girl of yours.”

Scrooge flailed backward. He gripped bench-back for support, practically losing his hat in the process.

Being able to see spirits was enough to reckon with – he’d never believed he would see _this_ one ever again. Considering what it’d been harbinger for last time, his instinctive reaction was not a pleasant one.

“Oh - oh no, _no_. Not again.” He demanded in a panic, “Wh-why are you here? What have I done?”

“Easy, easy.” Marley held his palm out as if soothing a skittish horse. “I’m not here for any of that. Not this time. This is purely a social call.”

“A...a _social call?_ ” he spluttered. “That’s allowed?”

“I assume. Seeing how as no one’s turned up yet to stop me.”

Scrooge was confounded into silence.

He stared, needing his nerves to settle; needing to absorb what was happening, the shock to fade.

Marley watched with crooked smile, expression caught between concern and amusement.

It was an achingly familiar look. One Scrooge hadn’t seen in more than a year.

His breathing calmed; hesitatingly he sat back up. He was half-convinced if he looked away the figure would vanish.

“There now. That’s better. Hate to drop by for a chat, spook you into a right fit in the process.”

Leaning back Marley crossed one leg over the other.

“Though least I didn’t give you so bad a start as on my first visit. Getting better at the whole thing; keeping all my odds and ends where they belong, for one. Rather not repeat that nasty experience.”

Scrooge started to reply then reconsidered. He glanced around, uncertainly.

“No worries.” Marley guessed what he was thinking. “No one’s gonna notice you talking to yourself.”

It was easy to say, not so easy to promise. But as he glanced about again, he began to notice something himself. Sense something, rather.

It was hard to put his finger on. Harder still to describe. Everything seemed to have undergone a sort of distortion. Sounds were muted, colors a shade off. People moved a fraction of second too slowly.

“Handy trick, eh?”

“How are you doing this? How are you even here?”

“Oh, but am I really here?” Marley’s eyebrows rose, his tone meaningful. “Or is this only a dream you’re having?”

Scrooge frowned peevishly. “No,” he objected. “This can’t be a dream. I know what this feels like.”

Eyes narrowed in thought, he reached to fix his hat. From other hand he held forefinger aloft as he spoke.

“I know precisely what it is to experience this sort of...otherworldly conclave. It’s not something I’d soon forget. It is _not_ the same as having a dream. I won’t be persuaded into confusing the two.”

“You have to logic your way through everything, don’t you?” Marley rolled his eyes. “Is that a sort of irony then - before I struggled to convince you that I was real; now when I wouldn’t mind you thinking that you were dreaming, can’t convince you of that either.”

That grousing tone - complaining about him for the sake of complaining. This too was very familiar.

Marley rested an arm along the bench, near enough to touch. He no longer had fetters, or lockboxes dragging behind him. Instead he wore his best suit - one he hadn’t been buried in, because it had seemed a waste. His waistcoat and cravat were bright without being garish – he always did have more inherent sartorial interest than his business partner; not that the comparison was especially high.

His hair was neat beneath his hat, which was set at a jaunty tilt. His walking stick with the carved handle rested beside his legs. He looked composed and alert, as if he were about to go out for an evening.

It should have been good to see him this way. But Scrooge was conflicted, at best.

“You shouldn’t _be_ here, Jacob. You’re supposed to be at peace. Wasn’t that the point?”

The other’s eyes widened a fraction, surprised. After a beat he reminded him, “Well...not the whole point.”

Scrooge made a morose, dismissive sound. They had both gained something by what occurred; one didn’t deserve to be reduced to a bit player in the other’s salvation.

Marley tapped a finger absently. “I _am_ at peace,” he assured. “Thanks in no small part to you.”

He said nothing, not knowing how to acknowledge this gratitude. After a pause, Marley continued.

“I never did get a chance to tell you what happened, did I? What my time in Purgatory was like. It took the form of my coffin, me trapped within it, awake. No sleep, no hunger, no pain. Just my own self and the dark.”

Scrooge stared at him, stricken.

Marley didn’t appear to notice. He kept speaking tonelessly.

“A whole year of that. With only your thoughts for company, you start asking: _why? Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?_ And eventually, worn down by time and memory...well, you begin getting answers.”

A humorless smile.

Scrooge shuddered, understanding. He knew that feeling: pride stripped away, revealing ugly unwanted truths.

“But...it isn’t like that for you, anymore.”

That smile softened around the edges. “Nah. Now it’s uninterrupted rest, for the most part. Like the deepest sleep you’ve ever had...no worry, or thought. Save these occasional echoes. Like ripples, cutting through the nothing, pulling me back into consciousness. When the living think about the dead, you know, we can hear it.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” was Scrooge’s immediate reply.

“Ah, well.” A fleeting grimace. “It was rough at the beginning. But it’s been over a year already; hatred fades, I imagine, as people get on with it. These days it’s mainly your thoughts alone that come to me.”

“I am sorry about that also. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any disturbances to your rest.”

“It isn’t _disturbing_ , to be thought about kindly. To be remembered with affection.” Marley shot him a look of fond exasperation. “Though I do wonder…if that’s eventually where oblivion sets in. Enough time passes, and no one remembers you anymore. No thoughts come to you - then it’s just comforting darkness.”

Perturbed, Scrooge had to ask, “Is that all there is, then?”

With little time spent on thought for his soul, perhaps he’d no right to question. Still after everything; to think the reward was a peaceful emptiness was...disappointing.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I can only let you in on what I’ve experienced. No one ever _tells_ you anything.” Marley complained, “You just show up, get stuck going along - no instructions, no explanations. You’d think when I was a restless spirit with a job to do, they’d take time for some lessons; but no. Had to figure it out by grasping around...manifestations and the like.”

“Hence you bumbling into a door and fusing your head with my knocker.” Scrooge couldn’t resist.

“I don’t have a physical sense of much of anything anymore, you do realize,” Marley said, defensive. “I’ve barely any awareness of bloody gravity!”

“Still...the _door-knocker_. If you aimed to be standing upright upon my threshold, that’s quite the miss.”

Marley gave irritated ‘ _humph_ ’; Scrooge merely sat there, folded hands atop his knee; both retreated into silence.

It truly was like old times.

He’d fleeting pleasure to think that, before a poignancy underneath set in. The reminder that these times were ended.

“No,” Marley snapped his fingers, breaking the reverie; “there must be something else. When they brought your sister in, she came from somewhere. I know she did. So maybe eventually you do get something more...or that’s where some go to begin with.”

Metaphysical notions aplenty were to be had within that information. Scrooge backed away from pulling it apart for further scrutiny; overwhelmed and apprehensive.

Through the morass however, a fact stuck out. “You...recognized Lottie? If being a ghost gives no special insight, then that would mean you had to have met her while you were both still alive.”

Marley gave the awkward flinch of one caught out. “She came to talk to me, a few times.”

 _“What?”_ Scrooge was dumbfounded.

“She stopped by our offices on the rare occasions you managed to not be around. Introduced herself to me, asked after you. Checking up - guess she figured you wouldn’t always give her the most forthcoming picture.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Not...that much.” He scratched his jawline, frowning. “Sort of regret that now, to be honest. Who knows what might have happened, if I’d been more helpful.”

“That wasn’t your responsibility,” Scrooge said at once.

“No. It wasn’t,” Marley agreed. “I was on your side, after all; figured I was guarding your interests.”

It was astonishing, to think a whole series of interactions must have gone on between his sister and his business partner and he was none the wiser. He knew other people’s lives were often a mystery to those around them, but he was discomfited by that once again hitting so close to home.

“Why did you never tell me about any of this?”

“Think I’d some half-formed notion you’d have told me not to talk to her, and...I dunno,” Marley admitted, hesitant. “I didn’t care to put myself in the thick of it, but it seemed always a vague shame to me the two of you’d had some falling-out, or whatever. _She_ wished it wasn’t so. That much was clear.”

Scrooge shut his eyes at that statement, pained.

The past could not be changed. Too much regret could only slow him down - oh, but there were moments like this where still it threatened to choke him.

If he had let his sister in more, to where she’d been able to make a difference. If he’d listened when she tried to reach him. _If only, if only…_

He needed, desperately, to think of something else.

Thoughts casting about at random, they slid back to how Marley had greeted him. He gave him a puzzled look. “What was that you were saying? When you first sat down?”

Marley’s face split into a grin as he recalled; “Ah, yes! I was complimenting that girl of yours.”

“My…” It took him a space. “Are you talking about Miss Belle?”

“Yes, your _‘Miss Belle’_.” Repeated with significant, playful mockery. “An impressively charming and lovely creature. You astonish me, Ebenezer - I’d have never thought you had it in you.”

“Oh now;” he scowled, warning, “let’s have none of that.”

Marley slunk against the bench - there was slyness about his face that bemused Scrooge. Despite many years of acquaintance he’d never been on the receiving end of that look before, and was unable to divine its meaning.

“She’s sweet on you, you know.”

He stared blankly. “...What?”

“That girl - that _woman_.” Sardonic primness. “That individual of feminine composition. Miss Belle Ledford. Your assistant. She’s got certain sentimental feelings for you.”

Scrooge went incredulously, “She does not!”

“She absolutely does.” Marley was confident, chuckling, “I knew that you hadn’t noticed. A blind man’s dog would have pointed it out to him by now, but oh, not you.”

“She does not have... _feelings_ for me. You are being absurd.”

“You think she hangs on because she’s got nothing else? If it was about money, she could probably do better by now - she’s garnered enough respectability. But no. It’s because she enjoys your company.”

“If she does, perhaps, that isn’t...that’s hardly the same as what _you’re_ suggesting. She isn’t...interested, in me.”

“Oh, I’d say she’s very interested.”

“She couldn’t see me that way.”

“She can, Scrooge. She does.”

“I’m old enough to be her father.” His voice heated with desperation now, wanting to escape this subject.

The retort to that however was dry. “Oh, well; of course no woman has ever carried on with a man who’s older than her.”

“Well I’m…practically old enough to be her grandfather!”

 _“What?”_ Marley burst into laughter. “If her mother had her at the ripe old age of _six?_ Do you hear yourself? You, Ebenezer Scrooge, are fudging the numbers! Is the idea really that offensive to how you view the world? That somebody might actually be in love with you - would that be so wrong?”

“Yes,” slipped from his tongue before he could think on it; bleak and harsh. “It would be very, very wrong.”

Marley stopped at once. Humor vanished; his expression changed to disbelief and sadness.

“Oh, Ebenezer…really?”

Scrooge twisted his head away - taste of ash in his mouth, emotion clouding his vision; unable to bear that look.

After a moment he stated with conviction, “Belle is young, and vibrant, with a life ahead of her. And I…” Defeated futility hung in his pause. “What have I to offer?”

If a part of him did wish that someone could love him, he nonetheless knew with certainty that no one ever _should._ He was a broken creature whose heart had been given no chance to form properly. That it was mainly his own fault didn’t mitigate that reality.

He tried - yes, truly he did. It was more than he’d done, once. Some things however could never change.

He did not have enough inside him to give away. He did not have the capacity to let someone in, either.

Nobody had any business loving him. Not when he would never be able to reciprocate.

It was Marley’s turn to break through the silence. “This is why I wanted to come see you, in fact.”

He tried swallowing away the bitter taste from the back of his tongue. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’ve been trying to live your life differently, to take the lessons from the Spirits to heart. But, I worry about you. I think you’re missing something.” Marley sat up, voice serious. “Now, not causing any harm, that’s certainly the right idea. But there’s got to be more to it than that.”

He was somehow surprised by the fact this did _not_ surprise him. After having earned his rest, his old friend nonetheless crawled out of the grave again because, of all things, he was _worried_ about him. It would have been darkly funny, were he not touched by it.

Then again, perhaps Jacob was simply bored with his afterlife.

“I know. I’m still figuring it out,” he said with feeble frustration. “What to do with my time now, what I should focus on, in order to accomplish the most-”

“What about using some of that time for yourself?” Marley interjected.

He stilled, startled and confused. “Pardon?”

“It’s not only about helping others - it’s about connection. It’s about going forth into the world, being willing to receive what it offers. It’s about taking chances to make yourself _happy_.” A beat. “But you’re afraid to do that, aren’t you?”

Were it anyone else, living or dead or inhuman Spirit, he would have argued.

Considering however what they’d been through together on Christmas Eve, such denials felt cheap. He merely set his mouth and said nothing.

“Again and again it’s the same thing,” Marley pressed on, pained and weary. “You go back and forth. Every time you start to lighten up - guilt comes and you stop. The Spirits gave you a second chance! You’re allowed to be happy.”

“Am I?”

It was anything but a flippant question. Marley stopped talking at that.

A grimness settled, made it clear they recalled their shared sins. The many wretched, unforgivable things they’d done. The heavy cost - the human cost.

Marley’s gaze dropped reluctantly, towards the spectral chains that were no longer fastened around him. Each link a life that would never again know happiness.

“Am I allowed to be happy, Jacob?” Scrooge had to ask despairingly. “Is that what I deserve?”

The other’s expression shifted to something more resigned. “Did either of us deserve redemption?” He shook his head. “I don’t think deserving’s got anything to do with it.”

“What, then? What is the purpose? What is the point?”

“Why _not_. That’s the point of it. You can spend every waking moment working yourself to the bone, but it won’t take anything back. What’s done is done; what’s gone is gone.”

Warming to his subject again, his teeth showed from how he emphasized his words.

“Trying not to repeat mistakes is fine. But spending time with your relatives, with friends you might make, with your Miss Belle maybe; seeing new things, relaxing, enjoying yourself - that isn’t gonna hurt anyone. Did those years of being your usual curmudgeonly self who took scarce pleasure in anything make you a better person?”

The answer to that was immediate. “No.”

“Then who’s to say being a happier man wouldn’t do the trick? Certainly, you’ve noticed kindness is easier when one’s in jolly mood to begin with.”

“Yes, but-”

“Life is for living - take it from a dead man.” A wry smirk. “You should make the most of your time. You’ve no idea how much there might be left.”

Scrooge hesitated.

Then, because it was Jacob, he spoke on the matter he’d no intention of telling another soul. He went, “Eight years.”

Marley faltered, not following. “Come again?”

“December 25th, 1851. Carved right there on the headstone.” He added with shrewdness, “Come now. Given my predilection for numbers, did you think I wouldn’t notice the date on my own grave?”

Comprehending at last his friend’s mouth hung open slightly, eyes widening.

“But that’s not gonna happen,” he stammered in protest. “It’s been changed!”

“Has it?” Scrooge countered. “That was never promised.”

“I thought that the third and final Spirit, after you went with him, then he would decide-”

“ _I_ decided. What I chose was for Tim Cratchit’s life to be spared. You were there. Surely you remember.” He set jaw firmly. “My decision was that I should receive the fate I had already earned. And if it includes that death...then so be it.”

“It’s the future. It’s what’s yet to come. There’s plenty of ways to change it.” Marley pointed. “You’ve already changed part of it - do you still think you’ll die alone and your grave will be unmourned?”

“What does it matter?” He sighed. “I’m not afraid. I don’t care.”

“Is that why you’re reluctant to do things? Because you think with only eight years, why bother?”

Scrooge didn’t answer.

Which, in its own way, was likely answer enough.

“Well I say the date from that stone, is not _set_ in stone. You never know. Anything could happen. You could live _another_ forty-eight years.”

“Good lord!” He was profoundly alarmed. “Don’t curse me like that, Jacob – I pray you!”

A quirked half-smile. "But, all right. For the sake of it, say you’re right. Say you’ve only got eight Christmases left-”

“Seven Christmases,” Scrooge muttered.

“ _Seven_ Christmases, then. Seven and a half years, just about. I’m sure you could tell me down to the days, minutes and seconds if I wanted, but I don’t; so keep that to yourself,” Marley said, frustrated but undeterred. “That is still a fair amount of time. There’s a lot you could do. For God’s sake, think of all you’ve done already!”

“What have I done? I’ve barely accomplished anything.”

“Oh yeah?” Resting elbow against the bench he leaned to peer at him, insistent. “Think about your nephew’s family. Six months ago they were strangers to you.”

Scrooge screwed up his face in consternation, wanting to argue but unable to.

“Actually, yes - there’s a useful notion; let’s dwell on them, as example,” Marley continued. “In eight years, the two eldest children will be adults. The boy will be in his majority; he’ll have an occupation, a place of his own, he’ll possibly have a wife. The girl will definitely be betrothed, at least-”

“Only if she wants to be,” Scrooge said heatedly without thinking.

Marley smirked, taking this involvement as proof towards his point. “And the younger boy might have an apprenticeship, or have joined the military if he’s into that sort of thing. The second girl will be practically a young lady. They’ll have had eight years’ worth of birthdays, holidays; trips and letters, misadventures and illnesses and celebrations. Don’t you want to be there for it all?”

“Yes,” he was forced to confess, emotion welling as he pictured it. “Yes, I do.”

Eight years. A fraction of a life. It seemed so paltry in comparison with the years he’d wasted. But taken a day at a time - moment by moment - there was much that could happen.

And did he deserve to enjoy those moments? A complicated question, for who held final say in such things? The Spirits had their work; to what standards, what ultimate arbitrator they answered remained mysterious.

Uncertainty, apprehension, a reluctance of habit, had him clinging to a final thin barrier that remained around his soul. He doubted he’d ever feel perfectly content in relinquishing it. Change was difficult, no matter what reason for its avoidance.

But he could try a little harder. Yes; he could bring himself around to doing that much.

From corner of his eye he saw Marley watching him, wry smile on his face.

“You know, I figure you’re actually the one who’s got it harder,” he remarked with sympathy. “Your pages are still being written. Whereas mine are finished. You can change, and doubt, and struggle.” He sighed. “I merely need to accept what’s already happened. For me, it’s over and done.”

Scrooge lifted his head; but whatever he’d meant to say was lost as he gazed at him, overcome.

No one would ever know Jacob Marley had it in him to be a good man. No one would ever know that he’d repented. There was chance, at least, somebody might think on Ebenezer Scrooge with affection after he died; odds were stacked against anyone even remembering Jacob Marley.

He was only person who knew anything real about Jacob – the only soul who cared.

And he still didn’t know what awaited him after: if or when they’d meet again. Those things he’d wished he’d said, once before – he was being given the chance to say them.

He cast about for how to begin. “What I was shown, by the Spirits. Did you witness any of it?”

“No. Not a bit.” Marley shook his head. “I assume it was all highly personal.”

“Yes. It was.” He swallowed thinly. “The first one, the Spirit of Christmas Past…”

“Ah yes, that charmer.” Words said with deep revulsion. “I did try to warn you, didn’t I?”

“You did, yes. But listen. One of the things he showed me, it was a Christmas past that never was. An alternate past. One where I hadn’t broken off with Elizabeth - one where we had married.”

“ _Elizabeth_.” Marley straightened upright, startled. “Lord. I’d forgotten all about her.”

“You weren’t the only one,” he said with pained irony. “But in this...other life, there were two children. A boy and a girl.” He waited, in order to emphasize: “I named my son after you.”

The other man’s eyes grew round; his voice was small, tentative.

“You...you did?”

“Yes. I did.” He nodded.

Marley glanced away, blinking. The significance of that gesture, even speculatively, was clearly not lost on him. As always - he understood.

Catching his breath, Scrooge went on.

“You were the best friend I had, Jacob. I have...missed you terribly, this past year and a half. Perhaps you already know this - if, as you say, you can hear when you’re in someone’s thoughts. But I was sorry I never got to tell you, before. And I had to say something now, when you’re here again.”

“Well you were the only person I could ever really get along with, difficult as you could be.” Marley forced a grin, fighting the emotion in his face. “Truth is, I never cared for people anymore than you did. The only difference was I knew how to fake a smile. But I never let anyone in, either.”

What being made to deal in matters of life and death could bring; to overhear them would’ve astounded, perhaps even mortified, about any man in London. Scrooge and Marley certainly hadn’t been sentimental creatures. Neither prone to going on this way – let alone with each other.

Mutual awareness of that led to sharing a shrewd, self-disparaging look. Marley gave a quiet chuckle.

“A conversation that’s a _bit_ overdue, perhaps. But, as the saying goes…better late than never.”

“It is indeed late,” Scrooge went, seriously. “I never wanted to acknowledge a lapse in my usual habits, a…proverbial chink in my armor. You were my longtime companion, who earned my appreciation and trust. Yet even to myself I could never recognize this, by sparing you any kindness. I…was not a good friend to you, I fear.”

“I wasn’t a good friend either,” Marley said in return at once. “How many times did you say there was nothing on your mind, nothing to talk about; I always knew you were lying. You could never fool _me_ , Ebenezer. But I pretended you did. A true friend, I figure, would’ve pushed; would have known when it was important. Me, I shrugged and let it go – I simply couldn’t be bothered.”

He avoided Scrooge’s gaze, seemingly needing space to recover – it made one wonder, how many times he’d turned those words over in his head.

After a pause, Marley rested a hand affectionately on his friend’s knee; same as he had when last they’d sat together.

“We really did bring out the worst in each other, didn’t we?”

“Maybe.” Scrooge was unhesitant. “I still would not change the time we spent together, not for anything. I will always treasure the memories.”

No matter what’d come of it, it would be a lie to say he regretted their partnership. It’d been the only source of anything like real happiness for much of his life.

A safe guess that Marley was thinking, and feeling, the same. His smile seemed at first glance halfhearted, but there was warmth of recollection behind it.

“Remember when we first met?”

“Oh yes. When we crossed paths as fellow relative nobodies, laboring at the Exchange.” He glanced at Marley. “I thought you were an imbecile.”

“I thought you were a lunatic,” Marley retorted – like Scrooge, he was smirking. “Always hiding away in the little bolt-hole you’d made out of your desk in the corner, counting under your breath, scratching away over tallies. I couldn’t understand how a young bachelor such as myself, in so fine a city for leisure and entertainments, could want to _work_ so much.”

“Did you ever figure it out?” Scrooge inquired mildly.

“Not really. I just got used to it.” Marley relaxed his posture. “Eventually I figured you better though, once I realized we had a few things in common. Got you to open up a little.”

“Well, you were the only who ever could.”

“I used to be,” Marley agreed. “Though even I could only get so far.” Another fond grin, another recollection. “Do you remember that one trader, among our superiors – portly fellow, ancient but lively; still wore rouge, and a towering Welch wig? Fer…Fes…”

“Fezziwig,” Scrooge supplied.

“Right, _Fezziwig!_ Now there was a chap with character.”

“Indeed.” Marley might be chuckling, but Scrooge pulled a face; wearied, less than amused by the memory.

“Every year at Christmastime, he’d throw that splendid party right on the floor. The whole of us invited to attend, no matter our personal lack of importance.”

“Yes; carting in decorations, a veritable feast of food and drink, hiring a fiddler,” Scrooge muttered. “Throwing away three or four pounds of his own money, and for what?”

“ _For what_ ,” Marley echoed, slightly disdainful. “It was a wonderful party. Highlight of the year, for some – not that _you_ would know, Ebenezer. I could barely ever get you to come down from your desk and see it.”

“Well I heard it, plenty,” Scrooge assured him. “All the way from upstairs, where I was trying to work.”

He doubted he would’ve had a good time, even if coaxed into coming away for more than a moment. Parties never made him comfortable.

Only slightest regrets, over this particular choice: for him, this memory was tinged with annoyance. He couldn’t understand, a building of otherwise serious businessmen becoming so wasteful and noisy – distracting him while he labored to be productive.

He understood it now – so, there was that. He still didn’t think _he’d_ ever become that kind of person.

Marley was smiling and sighing though, as he thought about that time. “There’d be cake, and mince pies, and dancing. Everybody invited their families, even their servants sometimes, so there’d be plenty of partners to be had. You’d never believe it, watching; how some of those stiff old-timers could be so light on their feet.”

Observing his face, Scrooge felt wistful and glad on his friend’s behalf. Even if his time had been cut short, Jacob had done plenty of living within it.

“Late in the evening, after enough rounds of strong drinks,” Marley continued, “Fezziwig would lead us in rounds of old songs. Bar tunes and soldier’s ballads, that sort of thing. There was this one that we did, every year…”

He stood, straightening his clothes; backed away so he was facing the bench.

Scrooge protested, “You aren’t going to-”

He was. Marley cleared his throat and, in somewhat tuneless if earnest pitch, began to sing.

_“Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme. Come lift up your voices, in chorus with mine…”_

Scrooge glanced around, fussing over the potential reaction to this spectacle.

But no one else nearby them acted as if they’d noticed or heard.

Marley sang even louder, as if mocking his concern. _“Come lift up your voices, all grief to refrain. For we may or might never all meet here again...”_

“I am not singing along with you,” Scrooge insisted.

Undaunted and undeterred Marley went on, getting into the swell of it. Tipping his hat, lifting his hands; mugging for his audience of one.

_“So here’s a health to the company, and one to my lass. Let us drink and be merry, all out of one glass. Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain…for we may or might never all meet here again.”_

As absurd as it was, Scrooge realized he was smiling faintly.

Finding something in the words, and his friend’s performance that touched at his heartstrings – drawing out, despite himself, enjoyment and approval.

He even – with eyebrows raised, a somewhat jesting air of his own – clapped hands together lightly, keeping time to Marley’s verses.

_“Our ship lies at anchor, she’s ready to dock. I wish her safe landing, without any shock. And if ever we meet again, by land or by sea…”_

Lifting hat further, Marley sketched half a bow towards Scrooge, holding his eyes as he drew out the final note.

_“I will always remember…your kindness to me.”_

“Mr. Ebenezer?”

The unexpected voice drew a start out of him.

Without knowing how it came to pass his eyes were closed, back leaning against the bench.

He sat upright with an agitated sound. Knocked askew, his hat fell to the ground; rolling onto one end.

“Why, fancy that - you must have dozed right off,” Belle observed wonderingly.

She stood by his side, her dark eyes wide as she gazed at him.

Scrooge blinked rapidly, trying to focus, head turning to readjust to his surroundings. The sounds and movements of the park had returned to normal, as they were before the appearance of Marley’s spirit.

Of course, with signs pointing to his falling asleep where he sat, he was forced to ask - had the spirit even truly been there?

“Are you all right, Mr. Ebenezer?” Belle hovered over him.

“I...I believe so,” he managed.

With care she reached to fix errant strands of hair fallen into his face.

It hit him this wasn’t the first she’d done such a thing. He’d permitted it before, absentmindedly attributing to fastidiousness on her part - but it could also be interpreted as gesture of affection.

He pulled back, discomfited. She faltered at his expression.

Starting to speak, she reconsidered. Instead she retrieved his hat, dusting it off before offering it to him.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she questioned, tone subdued.

More or less recovered - less confused, therefore less tense; he took hat back and replaced it.

“Yes. A touch embarrassed, perhaps. I can’t believe I actually drifted off, sitting in public like that.”

“Don’t worry. No one noticed, from the looks of it.”

She was right, fortunately. Though others were still strolling about none were close enough, and nobody lingered or looked back their way.

“I came to get you and let you know that we’re safe,” she continued.

“Pardon?”

“That man and his family. I came to tell you they did not, in fact, go inside the menagerie. They walked on right by, didn’t even turn in direction of the gate. They must have been going someplace else.”

He sighed in relief and vexation. “So I made a fuss over nothing then.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she reassured. “The thought of running into them was so upsetting to you. It was worth it to be certain. I’m much rather you were able to enjoy yourself.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Belle. You are, as rather often, patient to point of indulgence.” He paused, then asked slowly, “Did they notice you following them? Did they see you, at all?”

“No, not at all. I was very careful to keep my distance.”

“I see.” He hesitated again before asking his next question. “Then, did _you_ get any chance to see them?”

Her brow creased. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, were you able to observe anything about them; how they looked.” He stressed, almost pained, “I don’t need to know much. I only...did they seem all right? Were they happy, and healthy?”

Belle considered it. “I didn’t get a good look at their faces. But they looked clean, and fit, everyone wearing nice new clothes for summer. I would venture to say that all was going well for them.”

“Good. That is...that is very good, to hear.”

He pushed to his feet, hand bracing against the bench.

As he stood he became conscious of some shifting weight in his pocket. Puzzled, he reached inside to investigate.

He pulled forth two pennies, laying in the flat of his palm. He read the dates: 1837 and 1831.

Looking at them, he grinned.

He had come to trust by subtle things. To notice irregularities, and put faith in hints and signs.

“You know,” he mused aloud to Belle, “I am quite sure I did not put these in my pocket when I dressed to go out this morning.”

“Well you must have left them there some previous occasion, and forgotten about them,” she guessed.

“Yes - that is the most logical explanation, isn’t it.”

What he didn’t say was that, in this case, it was not what he believed. Instead he was convinced they’d been left for him by something - by someone - else.

“Here.” He held the coins out to Belle. “Go and drop them in that fountain, will you?”

“Why not keep one to throw yourself?” she reasoned with a smile. “That way we can both make a wish.”

“I have nothing to wish for,” he replied, dismissive. “Please, take them.”

“All right. As you insist.”

She took the coins and went to do as he asked. He stood there, walking-stick in hand, quietly waiting.

She was back in little over a minute. “All done,” she informed him, brightly. “So then. Shall we continue on?”

“Yes, by all means,” he agreed.

The pair of them fell into step, the matching pace they’d months to cultivate, as they resumed heading their original direction.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I wished for?” Belle asked merrily, offhand.

“I can’t do that,” he responded. “If you told me, then it wouldn’t come true.”

“Oh; you’re right sir, aren’t you,” she went with air of seriousness. “Forget that then. My mistake.”

They reached entrance to the menagerie in short time, presenting the letter and their fee. Once the former was examined and latter accepted, they were waved through with a tip of a cap and a respectful _“sir; ma’am.”_

Once inside Scrooge found himself standing still, simply to admire the layout. He’d forgotten this had been something of a passion project for more than one architect, and as the attraction’s popularity increased it was under constant renovation.

The grass around neat pathways was green and crisp. Off to one end he could see part of the terraced building constructed the year previous for housing the carnivores – tigers, leopards and such. Although he couldn’t make it out he knew at one side there was to be a pit, for the bears.

A separate building was for birds of paradise, another for the reptiles; a large enclosed paddock held some type of stag with curious curling horns; there was a lovely artificial millpond for the beavers.

The gardens purported to be of plants exotic in origin as the creatures. On the breeze was gentle scent of unknown flowers, something indefinably comforting in the way they enveloped the senses.

He closed his eyes and breathed in fully, slow. A sense of relaxation and subtle wonder settled over him.

 _Life is for living indeed, Jacob,_ he thought. _How right you were, once more._

He and Belle turned their heads and looked to each another.

“What do you suppose,” she remarked; “shall we head straight for the elephants, or should we save the best for last?”

“Let’s head straight for the elephants.”

It wasn’t difficult to find what they sought. That part of the menagerie appeared very popular.

There was a crowd before the paddock, mostly working-class to go by clothing, peppered with occasional upper-class gentlemen. Young children in particular huddled close as they could, crying out their delight.

“Goodness,” Scrooge breathed practically under his breath.

“Oh my,” went Belle in identical manner.

It was easy enough to say one knew how an elephant looked, by a drawing; easy enough to say an elephant had to be something like other creatures with four legs, like a mule, or a bulldog.

But the truth was, there was nothing at all in England like a living elephant in motion that Scrooge had seen his entire life. No picture-book had ever done them justice.

Without being aware of his own feet he drifted closer. Only presence of the crowd deterred him.

As he lingered Belle took the lead; grasping his hand, pushing her way forward.

With minor reluctance the group parted for a woman; she offered a cheery litany of ‘ _excuse me’_ and _‘thank you’_ , bringing him along in her wake.

They were up front among the children. It made it more evident how enormous the animals were.

They watched without making a sound for awhile, as spellbound as the youngsters around them.

“Just look at them,” Belle marveled. “If you came to my lodging-house riding one of those, you’d hardly need to take the stairs! You’d just climb right through my bedroom window.”

“I understand perfectly why they’re considered so essential for any parade in their native country.”

“You have that right. And why Sultans love bringing them into wars – they must be terribly ferocious.”

“Oh, not at all,” he corrected; he’d been watching attentively. “Look at their motions. I think they must be gentle creatures, for all their size.”

There was something almost graceful about them, as if their great bulk forced them to move slowly. Every step they took, every flick of wispy tail or fanning of great broad ear, seemed precise.

The nearest one kept a calm gaze on the visitors with black unblinking eye, as with the versatile appendage that was its trunk it plucked and fed itself from the nearby leaves.

“Oh,” Belle remarked, “I think that you might be right, Mr. Ebenezer. Still, I would love to ride one down the street, breaking through traffic – wouldn’t you?”

“I couldn’t even imagine.” He had to smile, leaning her way without quite taking eyes off the enclosure. “You know, I rode on the back of a camel once, in a dream.”

“Lucky!” She appreciated that in earnest. “I’ve never even ridden on a horse.”

“No? Well, maybe some day.”

“Maybe. I hope so. Life is full of experiences,” she stated. “One only needs to be willing to look for them.”

It was nearly a summation of a conversation he’d had earlier. However it was phrased, he found he couldn’t agree more.

He was standing in a place he’d never been before, seeing something he had never seen before – in midst of making a memory he knew would remain special to him for the rest of his life.

And the only thing that’d kept him from doing this any sooner had been a lack of willingness to go forth into the world and try.

Try different things from what was known and usual; try reaching out to others as much as merely observing them; try having an awareness of the unique moments as they occurred.

 _I must hold onto this_ , he thought. _I will do my best to pay attention not only to my actions, but to the_ feelings _of the existence I am living._

After all, without that awareness – what even was the joy of being alive?

Whether earned or not, so long as it was there for the taking, then Ebenezer Scrooge would permit himself a little joy. There was no good, or useful, reason not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksi3UgNbhRY


	15. Piece of Mind to Feast Upon

_"Mr. Scrooge!" said Bob; "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!"_

_"The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it."_

_"My dear," said Bob, "the children; Christmas Day."_

_"It should be Christmas Day, I am sure," said she, "on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!"_

_"My dear," was Bob's mild answer, "Christmas Day."_

_"I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's," said Mrs. Cratchit, "not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year!—he'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!"_ _\- Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits_

Ebenezer Scrooge either did or did not forget easily, dependent upon a number of variables attached to any circumstance.

Outwardly unpredictable; what notions lurked in memory, while others swiftly eroded. Even he perhaps couldn’t have found pattern to explain it.

More consistently however he’d always had his pride. Any who’d known him, ever, could attest to that.

Not entirely random then, his dwelling upon how he’d fallen asleep on a park bench.

Many other significances occurred that day - he didn’t let this minor embarrassment overshadow them. He knew it far near to the bottom, in an accounting of priorities.

Still, his being overtaken like that - it nagged him.

He’d never been entirely pleased with consequences brought about by the tonic; for a time now he’d been idly debating whether to go without.

This last inconvenience: as good a reason as any to finally follow through.

He stoppered the bottle - by now about half-full - removing it from bedside table, tucking away at back of a cupboard with firm finality.

That night was violently restless; he could scarcely keep his eyes shut. He dragged through the next day; drinking black tea, keeping mouth closed in attempt to hide a sullen temper. How well he succeeded was debatable.

The common advice would have been to wean off the substance, but he hadn’t patience for such a matter. He knew it might be difficult; he would simply endure through to other side.

He tried to get what sleep he could. He tried not to worry about possibility he’d never again know a good night’s rest.

Still, there were some built-up shadows under his eyes again, by the Saturday he made way over to his nephew’s residence.

At least tiredness distracted from worry, how things might go with Emilia’s charitable associates.

He rapped on the door. Rather than the girl opening it, he was greeted by the man of the house.

“Oh - Fred!” he managed in surprise, as he unthinkingly crossed the threshold.

“Good afternoon, Uncle. Sarah has been reassigned into helping set up and serve in the parlor,” Fred spoke, grinning, by way of explanation.

“Ah...yes, I suppose that does make sense.”

A tea given for regular visitors did not warrant the hiring on of extra hands, no doubt. Though he couldn’t help wondering if Emilia would always be content having only one full-time servant, concerned with proper appearance as she was.

One day he really would have to speak with his nephew about his budget and finances. Scrooge had attempted to broach the subject before, but was brushed off every time.

“Are you well, Uncle?” Fred peered, as he removed his hat. “Forgive me but, your color seems off.”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled. “A few nights of uneven sleep. That is all.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m thrilled you were able to join us today, all the same.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated with different intonation, dismissive.

“Not at all!” Fred insisted. “Why, it means so much to me, to get you before we’re out of the city. I know I’ll miss spending time together, the coming weeks. We’re always so glad to have you.”

‘ _We’_ implied Emilia was included in this grateful enthusiasm - Scrooge refrained from comment on that.

For the rest, he stammered a nonsensical reply; overwhelmed and embarrassed. He was still very unused at anyone’s being pleased to see him – having attention called to it always perplexed him.

“You’re the second to arrive,” Fred went on; they trailed toward the parlor. “The rest will be along shortly, no doubt. It’s to be a party of ten, including you and I.”

“Oh, that is...more than I anticipated.”

“It isn’t so bad. Let me think; it’s to be Reverend Crumb, Miss Fordyce and her sister, Mrs. Nash...Mrs. Parker wanted to bring along her daughter today, and Mrs. Broadbend always has her nephew. None of them bite, I assure you.”

Fred was in jest, but his uncle couldn’t manage laughter.

“Do you often participate in gatherings for Emilia’s philanthropy?”

“Usually no - I’m quite frightened by many of them.” Said with unflinching cheer. “This lot is far more sedate. It’s no official organization, merely a regular chat of interested individuals. All I must do is sit there smiling, agreeing with whoever spoke last if asked for an opinion.”

That was well enough, for Fred - Scrooge dubiously supposed he himself could fall back on that stratagem, in utmost emergency.

“Still, this seems an almost desperate way to avail yourself of my company. Particularly in a setting where I should have so little to...well, to do.”

“Your martyrdom is valued, that you should so likely anticipate boredom,” Fred went without hint of irony.

“What concerns me more is that _I_ will be boring,” he corrected.

Fred paused, not turning around at first.

“Oh, poor Uncle Ebenezer,” he went softly, trying to make a joke of it. “Is it so unfamiliar a sensation to you, the thought of being missed?”

Whenever his nephew had these moments of deeper, possibly accidental insight, Scrooge was too thrown off balance for sarcasm or other obfuscation.

“You know that it is, Fred,” was all he could reply.

The younger man turned. His expression displayed uncharacteristic touch of awkwardness - that he should be explaining such things, where most people who weren’t his uncle would understand.

“It doesn’t always have to be...special, when you want to see somebody,” he stated with minimal faltering. “They shouldn’t always feel obligated to _present_ themselves...to show off, bringing out stories and clever tricks like they’re wearing their Sunday best. I know you, Uncle Ebenezer - or I should like to think we’re coming to know each other.” He hesitated, brows knit. “I don’t expect anything else, when I say I would like to see you. Just spending time together in quiet company, that can be enough.”

“...Oh.”

A lackluster reply - what else could he say? He _was_ still unused to having those in his life that counted for relatives, for friends.

From the outside it looked an intimidating, complicated concept. Such tremendous energy, to _socialize_ ; to be engaging and interesting, having some unique contribution every time.

Silent and perturbed, he mulled over notion it was satisfactory to merely...be present. That it could be so simple.

That any would like him enough to find sign of affection and approval only by being around him; no further effort to justify worth required on his part.

Well; if there were environment in which to attempt practicing this, perhaps none was better than he found himself in at present. He’d been truthful when he told Emilia he wished to learn more about certain subjects - he’d nothing to add to the discussion.

Given the conflation of his background with those in attendance, being ignored might be the _best_ treatment to hope for.

The others indeed arrived in short sequence, not long after himself. Perhaps promptness was considered essential attribute in their field - possibility he made note of with light enthusiasm.

Emilia played respectable hostess, introducing name and connection - _‘Fred’s uncle, on his late mother’s side’_ \- in breezy fashion to her guests.

The pinched smiles and sharp bobs of the head in acknowledgement hinted at his being regarded with wariness, though that was closest sign of coldness or challenge made to his presence.

Of two handshakes exchanged, the one with Reverend Crumb was a quick squeeze while the one with Mrs. Broadbend’s nephew was downright limpid; he took neither personally - the clergyman appeared distracted by the luncheon and desire to return to it, while young Mr. Broadbend had an insipid smile hinting at his not being much focused on anything.

He was at one end of a settee, shared with Fred, seated diagonal opposite to Emilia. He made inquiry early as to whether the couple had news of their children’s arrival at their destination - they had - and how the young travelers were said to be doing - well enough.

After that he sat unobtrusively, holding cup and saucer as conversation volleyed around him.

Once the Reverend sated his interest in cakes and sandwiches, he’d quite a bit to say on overcrowded housing courts in Field Lane. Miss Fordyce, Mrs. Broadbend and Emilia held spirited debate on divided opinions over the recent Metropolitan Buildings Act. Mrs. Nash and Mrs. Parker at first gossiped about hats and ribbons, but soon drifted into rising market prices and bemoaning the serious lack of quality affordable bread available to the poor.

The atmosphere seemed reminiscent of the discussion groups gathered at many a pub on a regular weekly evening. Although, naturally, at least half of _this_ group belonged to the Temperance Movement.

Scrooge almost wished he’d brought something for taking notes. He ducked his head more than once to disguise his repeating words silently, in attempt at committing them to memory. There were indeed no shortage of useful subjects being touched on, almost faster than he could process them.

He hadn’t realized when people spoke vaguely about the welfare of the poor, there were so many _directions_ from which to tackle the subject.

The unfortunate Miss Parker had eagerly come with ideas she wanted to contribute in youthful enthusiasm - it soon became clear her mother’s motivation, on the other hand, was collaborative attempt at matchmaking between her and Mrs. Broadbend. They kept steering the young people to talk to one another, inserting unsubtle comments about the prospective pair’s respective virtues.

Making matters worse for the young lady: Mr. Broadbend was either unaware what his aunt intended, or generally clueless. He’d nothing of use to say to any comment put to him, by Miss Parker or anyone else, only responding with unrelated banalities.

Less out of pity for Miss Parker and more from his own uselessness to rest of the party’s conversation, Scrooge politely let Mr. Broadbend regale him in great detail on his hobby of making model boats.

“Oh, leave off vexing the man, Filbert,” the aunt finally interjected - irritated by her nephew’s lack of focus in the desired direction. “I daresay you can tell Mr. Scrooge is holding back a yawn.”

“If it appears so, I assure you; it’s nothing personal,” Scrooge countered with smoothness he’d not anticipated from himself. “I’m admittedly rather tired - I have not been sleeping well at all of late.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” Emilia said with perfunctory solicitousness. “A good night’s sleep is crucial to one’s well-being.”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then decided no harm was in revealing further detail. “For awhile I was using a medicinal tonic - but it often left me in stupor upon waking, which I lost my indulgence for.”

“And so you have left off on taking it, I gather,” Emilia said. “A wise decision. You never know what these druggists put into their tinctures.”

This provoked objection from Miss Fordyce, who extolled on some cure-all commercial elixir she was long-time proponent for. Soon the women, including Miss Parker, and even Reverend Crumb were swapping personal remedies for various ailments.

“So you begin building the ship _outside_ the bottle then, before you put it in?” Fred was remarking to Filbert Broadbend. “My, how ingenious!”

Scrooge returned his attention to his niece-by-marriage.

“Do _you_ have any good advice on defeating insomnia, Emilia? With a busy personal calendar, I imagine being well-rested is particularly important to you.”

She gave subtlest blink of surprise at his asking - if he’d not been looking at her face directly, he’d never have caught it.

“I read before I go to bed. It’s the best distraction for a restless mind. Sometimes, if my eyes are tired, I have Fred read to me.”

This homey piece of information, mentioned so casually, caused his own subtle surprise.

“What sort of thing do you read?” he inquired, not wanting to lose unexpected opening.

“Exclusively fiction - often light, picaresque works; the better to gain distance from my waking concerns. I avoid Newgate novels, or anything of the like; there was a serial I followed this year that swerved into heavy satire on the so-called American lifestyle, which I found rather dark and mean-spirited.”

“I’m afraid I’ve little to no opinion on novels,” he admitted. “I was an avid reader as a child, but it has been so long since I’ve explored newer fictions.”

“You must simply take time to look into your options, Uncle Scrooge,” she chided. “There are so many, it’s unthinkable you shouldn’t be able to find _something_ you enjoy.”

She turned away to sip her tea. Her tone and manner were otherwise same as always - it took a moment to realize she’d addressed him differently.

A small thing, that spoke private volumes. A mark of acceptance - perhaps even, some mutual respect.

He absorbed it, wondering what he’d done to earn this shift. Had it been his willingness to attend that afternoon’s tea with her philanthropic companions – his unobtrusive behavior throughout?

Perhaps it had to do with a detail Fred mentioned once in passing: Emilia appreciated being asked for her opinion. And he’d done exactly that.

The couple left the next day to begin their holiday. Deprived of the familial companionship, Scrooge was displeased to mark the passage of time more slowly - but pass inevitably it did.

The fortnight following brought only sporadic relief to his struggles. Some nights he slept better; many he fought merely to close his eyes and drift off.

He considered Emilia’s advice. He stood before his bookcases searchingly; his collection was primarily academic and factual.

What works of fiction he owned were things read long ago - not diverting enough for an adult mind, and far too familiar to distract him.

“Miss Belle,” he said the next afternoon; “You know, you are the only individual within my acquaintance who I might consider reliable source of taste regarding popular literature.”

“Am I, sir? How surprising - in the past you’ve expressed your opinion regarding the things I like to read,” she scolded amiably.

A quiet grumble, “Well. I took it surely your horizons broaden beyond the like of penny-bloods - finances permitting.”

“Finances permitting, Mr. Ebenezer, yes they do.” She peered out the window - something caught her attention in the street. “I get my books after they’re quite worn down, snatched from the pile on way to the paper mill. Not precisely newest fictions. Although, I’ve been following this romance serial by, what’s-his-name, who wrote _Jack Sheppard_ …not much to the tale proper, sad to say; but it paints _such_ scenes of those quaint royals of old.”

“Anything appearing in print within the past twenty years might be considered ‘new’ to me.”

“Have you considered going into a bookshop? Or joining a lending library? I imagine the folk who make it their livelihood could give better recommendations than I.”

He grimaced. “Picture how the prospect of entering a crowded shop, placing myself at mercy of a mercantile stranger must appear to me.”

“Oh!” She chuckled sympathetically. “Would you care to deputize me? I can go and do the asking for you, one day this week. And bring the bill back for your approval.”

“Would you, Miss Belle? I’d certainly appreciate it, it would be...very useful.”

“It’s hardly a trouble,” she returned, unhesitant. “Being useful, after all, is what I’m here for.”

Something about the way she said this made his relief falter.

He attempted a joke. “Shame you couldn’t simply emulate your idol of _The_ _Arabian Nights_ \- remove any delay from the process.”

“Hmm, tell you stories by the lamplight, you mean; keep watch by your bedside, until you fell asleep?”

He realized too late the somewhat scandalous implications.

Looking up with alarm, he found Belle smirking at him. She tossed her head back, lightly, with a small laugh.

“If I thought you would _let_ me, I might indeed - I think it sounds a wonderful time. Although, on the other hand - it would be an impractically late long walk back home for me, after.”

Said this musingly, continued looking out the window; perfectly innocent overall.

But it was difficult not to wonder, over there being something potentially flirtatious about her ready agreement to the scenario.

How he wished that Marley had never mentioned what he had! Though Scrooge didn’t know he could believe in something so foolish, ever since it was said Belle might be attracted to him, he was unable to keep from... _noticing_.

She might cast little looks in his direction. A glance from whatever occupied her; a fond smile seemingly to herself. Her face lit up every morning when she approached him, as she arrived.

She seemed especially pleased to draw laughter out of him. She’d memorized every favorite, from biscuit to newspaper to color, provided without prompting. She’d wormed into his confidence: could touch his arm on the street, brush dust from his collar, without his remarking on her within his space.

 _Surely,_ he argued, _these could be signs of a simply friendly affection?_

Belle had a kind heart, an open nature. It would be wrong to assume...it made so little sense.

He was a man with little time left to him, vitality long faded; of a sour and stunted disposition. While she was...well; he’d kept from noticing _this_ for a time also, disjointed from simple human observation.

But Belle was lovely, as a young woman was lovely; she had a great deal of beauty, and charm.

Where he sat at his desk, he found himself silently observing her. The way she leaned forward in profile, gazing out his window.

She must have always been pretty. She’d likely been regarded so before by many, to some degree.

Now however her figure filled out with health; face and throat no longer hollow; a flicker of lifted skirt when she walked might reveal a shapely definition beneath her boots. Her complexion warm, smooth - the glow of her cheeks, curve to her lips, thickness of lashes more evident without cosmetics.

She snuck in brighter colors to her outfits, touch here and there, when she could. There was playfulness about it that suited - she was lively, and witty. She won many over with a word or a glance. Men’s eyes followed her with a certain admiration - Scrooge saw it now.

And he saw too, how they frowned his direction. The envy, spitefulness in a sidelong glance. _‘What is such a treasure doing with the likes of_ him? _’_ they seemed to demand.

He felt a distaste, to have awareness of these things.

He’d liked it far better to keep from thinking this way - about Belle, or what she might already feel; about the reality of the world, and grown men and women.

He’d preferred when he felt safe in their companionship, as it was. Never worrying over ways it could grow more complicated.

He tried to chase this unwanted _awareness_ away - try as he might, it could not be done.

Light streamed past the windowpane, around the shape of her nose and bow of her mouth, in the simple studs at her earlobes and the ribbon around her neck. Her braid across her shoulder, dark locks illuminated in the sun; hinting at how soft those waves must be were they brushed free of her plait.

He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing misplaced wistfulness.

“Whatever are you observing out there, Miss Belle?” He cleared his throat. “It seems to have thoroughly captured your attentions.”

His street was a quiet one, befitting a well-off neighborhood. No place however was fully freed of merchants and vagrants; roaming the suburbs, loudly advertising wares and services.

If she hadn’t been merely staring, he might’ve thought she looked for the distinct tall hat of the flypaper man - it _was_ that time of year, and he complained irritably about infestation as he did anything else.

“Oh!” Pulling back she ducked her head; guilty having been caught out, though only mildly. “It’s nothing - it looks as if there’s a Punch and Judy set-up at the corner.”

“Really?” Truly surprised, he frowned. “Bold of one to still be here - typically they follow the crowds of children out of town. I’d expect all the entertainers had headed for Margate or Brighton weeks ago.”

But indeed, straining his ears he could make out the characteristic mouth-organ and drum.

“Yes, this one appears a real dawdler,” she agreed. “Perhaps they couldn’t afford to pack up the stand and puppets and the like.”

“How much could it cost to transport some puppets? I imagine all to be an easy fit into a single trunk. Barring any fistfights between Mister Punch and his fellow characters.” He tapped his pen. “If you like, we could summon them closer - have them perform on orders outside the window. Miss Jenny could join you - she might enjoy it, if one could persuade her to sit down and relax long enough.”

“Really, Mr. Ebenezer - I have no idea whether or not you’re teasing.” She turned away from the window. “Even if the offer were sincere though...I was never much an audience for them, actually.”

“No?”

“Nah.” She shrugged. “I know it’s meant all in fun, but it always rang odd - laughing over a man who kills his wife and child, and keeps getting out of punishment by being ornery.”

“You do make a fair point.” It was a classic amusement, which he supposed meant few ever stopped to think what they laughed at. “At least he’s brought up on charges regarding his wife - once it's thrown out the window, no one ever even mentions the baby.”

Belle shrugged again, with faint smile, aiming for something lighter.

“If however it were an Italian organ grinder with some mechanical skeletons, or one of those old dancing sailors with a ship on his head-”

“Alas for your hopes, you would never see the like here.” He had to smile himself, at the slight cheek of such optimism. “This block is entirely residential, and never that crowded. In any case, hasn't the dancing sailor with model vessel as headwear faded out of fashion?”

“Oh well.” Still smiling she moved away, returning to sorting papers. “Suppose that’s for the best. Better off not being distracted.”

His expression faltered, gaze dropping to what was under her hands. Magazine clippings, newspaper articles, mail that could have already burned for kindling.

His mouth half-opened - but words didn’t quite form; he went back to his desk, brow furrowed.

As he scratched away at meaningless tallies, the unexpressed thoughts lingered on his tongue.

It consumed his focus more than he realized: when the clocks struck teatime he looked up at the sound, startled.

“Perfect timing,” Belle declared; setting aside her scraps, brushing hands against her skirt. “I was beginning to get peckish.”

He made sound of agreement.

While he cleaned his hands Belle moved to the parlor. She put the kettle to boil, set up the tea things; went to retrieve their repast from the larder.

“You did mention Jenny earlier,” she remarked; returning bearing tray with pastries, salad, and cheeses. “Do you know where she’s gotten to? I don’t think that I’ve so much as glimpsed her even once today.”

“Though I leave the rotation through the larger cleaning tasks entirely to her direction, I do believe the time has come for her to scrub the floorboards in the upper rooms.”

Approaching his usual chair he discovered Erasmus curled upon the seat. He pulled it back, shooing feline away, who retreated with reproachful sniff before dashing out of the room.

“Ah.” Finished preparing their spread, Belle nodded knowingly. “That will certainly keep her occupied.”

“Yes.” He glanced in direction of upstairs, frowning. “Were there anything I could do to assist in making it easier, I would.”

It was her occupation - still the notion of young, tiny Miss Jenny laboring through the more backbreaking work always disquieted him. But no product, no invention yet there was to lessen the strain of some tasks – they could only be done by hand, when needing doing.

“But there is nothing for it,” he continued. “The only way is that of dirtied clothing, wrinkled palms, bruises and blisters.”

“Though I won’t go so far as to say she doesn’t mind, I’m sure she bears it better than you’d think,” Belle commented. “Even when exhausted, there’s pride in having been productive – in knowing you’ve accomplished something. She has that character, I think – I know it when I see it.”

He paused beside the table, hand on his chair. Watched her fluttering about, doing this and that with absent pleasure on her face.

Indeed, she’d know that type of character – considering she possessed it in droves.

Those half-formed notions of before leapt forward from his tongue.

“Miss Belle…I find myself feeling an amount of - _regret,_ lately; and it’s come to point where it must be addressed. It feels as if I’ve fallen short in my treatment of you, as your employer.”

She looked, startled, at how he gazed at her unhappily.

“Rubbish, Mr. Ebenezer! Beg your pardon, sir. But wherever did you come by an idea such as _that?_ ”

A solemn beat before he continued. “You are yourself an industrious and resourceful individual. You take pride in...having done what you can, to earn your way through life. I noticed that from when first we met, almost immediately.”

Absently grasping the back of the chair; eyes dropped as he searched for words.

Belle stared in confused concern.

In the silence it seemed the clocks ticked louder, echoing throughout his apartments.

“When I hired you, I made promise that I’d not disrespect you by making it an act of charity - that I’d true use for your labor, and I would only compensate you reasonably, if generously, for that.”

Lifting head he inhaled quietly, not quite a sigh - stepped toward her, until he was in front of her.

“Nowadays, however...you travel to my house every morning, spend the day here, and what is it that you do? You fetch things for me, so that I might avoid the discomfort of a crowded and unsightly market. You open my mail; dispose of notices for dismissed lawsuits. You read my newspapers and chatter away with me about nothing over tea. And, what else?”

Biting her lip she’d turned head aside, reluctantly, as he spoke - “Look at me, Miss Belle,” he insisted. “When is the last time you did something in the course of your ‘work’ here that was _truly_ necessary?”

She didn’t respond - she didn’t need to. There was an admittance in her expression; an almost resentful one.

He wasn’t chastened by it. Returning to where he’d stood before, he gestured.

“Out of self-centered reluctance to part with your company I have reduced you to nothing more than a companion in my own idleness...a mere decorative object. It is unfair to you.”

His conclusion reached, it was allowed to sit a moment - Belle’s jaw worked as she thought how to respond, brow creasing.

The protest he could see in her face did not surprise him. The irritation somewhat did.

“Are we not also _friends_ then, Mr. Ebenezer?”

“Yes, it could be said that we are...that is, I should like to think so; but I should not have to pay you for friendship. Though it is not surprising perhaps, given my character, it might be one of the only ways I’m able to find reliable companionship-”

“ _Rubbish,”_ she repeated; downright testy now in her displeasure.

“Nevertheless,” he pressed through, “those were not the terms under which you were hired - and I daresay you would not have agreed if they were. It isn’t right you’ve been tricked into them, gradually. It was not my intention but that’s no excuse. In a way, it’s little better than-”

“Than how I used to make a living?” she finished, pointed.

Pained, he shut mouth tightly, lips thinning. He did not however argue her phrasing - letting it work for him he gazed at her again, uncompromising and severe.

Belle shook her head at him. She went over to check on the kettle, still heating up.

“You know,” she said quietly, “it’s not in fact the first offer I’ve ever received, of similar fashion.”

If she was trying to discomfort him that was way to go about it - he fought the urge to duck his head, to break her gaze.

“I try not mentioning such details - I know it bothers you. But, since we’re on the subject...surely, sir; if it’d ever occurred to you to think, it may have crossed your mind one who started working young, and had a decent look about her - if I might say so without much vanity - could have found a place at...the higher end of the profession.”

He’d tried very much _not_ to think, it being rather unwanted knowledge. But he did have some understanding what she was getting at.

“Different parts of this city have different...classes of entertainment, though the entertainments themselves, the desires they cater to, might be similar,” he muttered. “The theatres of the East End are not the same as those to be found at the heart of the City, where congregate the more wealthy.”

“Just so. And the prettier girls who at least appear to have an easier life, that’s the sort who are of service to the magnates and Right Honorables.”

She glanced aside; in recollection of what, he couldn’t know.

“But it comes at a cost...namely, to be _kept_. Watched over by a pimp, or a bawd; even winning the grand place as somebody’s mistress means being a little bird in a gilded cage. That’s not for me. It never could be. I’d struggle and starve; yet be happier than I would be, to have that lot.”

None of this made anything less than perfect sense to him. From what he knew of the aforementioned profession, and what he knew of Belle.

“I’m explaining this now,” she went, “so that you understand, I wouldn’t be happy - just sitting here, keeping you paid company, if that’s all that I thought it was. But, I enjoy your company - _and_ I enjoy working for you. Even if it’s only...fetching things, and skimming through your papers, for now.”

“But...I am retired, Miss Belle: that isn’t going to change. And the ever-present fact of the matter is I simply have no idea what to do with myself.”

“You don’t know what to do with yourself _right now_. That isn’t going to last.”

“No?” He frowned and blinked. Startled how certain she sounded - and, maybe a bit desperate himself. “You don’t think so?”

“I’m not the only one here, I believe, who dislikes sitting idle,” she teased in friendly fashion. “Though perhaps it hasn’t hurt you either, to learn how to find a bit of pleasure in doing nothing.”

Belle rested one hand on her hip.

“But you’re so determined on having a way to help people, to put your money and efforts to use. Eventually you’ll figure it out, what you’d like to do in particular - and you’ll need help when you do. And I look forward to having a part in that, actually. Until then,” she concluded, “I don’t at all mind waiting.”

“No?” he asked, though he found himself mollified by her explanation; almost sheepish even for having brought the matter up.

Was it silly, to be so easily soothed by someone expressing their faith in him? Perhaps; then, it _was_ still a rare occurrence.

And none seemed able to do that so well as her. There were reasons he’d liked having her around, that’d nothing to do with how bright her eyes became when she smiled.

Though, perhaps...he did like that, too.

A detail he could admit privately to himself; for it meant nothing, in the end.

“No,” she assured him. “I may not like to hurt anyone’s feelings, Mr. Ebenezer - still, I much prefer to be honest in my speaking.”

“Indeed you do, Miss Belle. It is a trait I much appreciate about you.”

“And I do appreciate that you appreciate me, sir,” she said with such playful sweetness he couldn’t help but momentarily grow confused and flustered.

“That is...you are a very good employee,” he went on, clearing his throat. “Most talented and dependable as an assistant and...and very valued. And it pained me to think that you might feel I treated you as something less than what you are - or that I might _be_ treating you so, regardless of your noticing.”

“I’m touched by your concern,” she said, gentler. “You’ve nothing to worry for.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He paused. “And I am also glad – or _relieved_ , perhaps is more accurate, that your own motives to remaining…well it’s not my place to judge; still I’m relieved to hear it doesn’t appear to be primarily about money. Or, perhaps-”

“Out of pity?” she finished, gentler still.

One corner of his jaw clenched absently, his gaze shifted away from meeting hers.

“No, sir.” Coming closer she reached for his hand – giving him reassuring squeeze at the wrist. “I’m not the type. I learned early on for myself: pity, only pity, never does anyone a spot of good.”

He could only nod.

Smiling to herself, seemingly satisfied, she sat down; began selections for her plate while they waited for kettle to reach a boil.

Pulling out his chair he sat across from her, following her example.

“On that matter which you alluded to, I have in fact had some recent thoughts.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes - that afternoon at my nephew’s turned out rather illuminating. There are some things I mean to research.”

“How exciting! Go on then. Tell me.”

Cheered on by her enthusiasm he prepared to do so, but as he went to speak something mentally struck him. He faltered.

“No...wait. This still is not right,” he realized.

“What isn’t?”

“There might always be an...imbalance, owing to my position as your employer. However now that I think on it, it feels as if I am always discussing the events of _my_ life and seeking your advice; never the opposite.”

He indicated her with outstretched hand.

“If we are to some degree friends, shouldn’t there be equity in the focus of our conversation?”

“Well I do believe I talk as much as you when we speak, if not quite a bit more,” she remarked. “Anyway, your life is far more interesting. I only have nothing to share.”

“I feel as if I know comparatively little about you,” he insisted. “Parts of your past, yes. But what of your acquaintances? The goings-on of your day-to-day; your living situation?”

“Oh, but that’s nothing, Mr. Ebenezer...truly! You don’t want to hear how I went shopping for cabbage, or met with some old friends over a pint.”

“And why not?”

“Well...I don’t know that you would like to hear it; I mean, all of it. What’s normal for some, the details can be dull or even upsetting to gentlefolk, I’m aware.”

“Do you think me squeamish?” he retorted with irony. “When the lives of those in this city, the working classes normally hidden, is precisely what I’ve become preoccupied with?”

“Well, as I know I’ve heard you say something like, once or twice,” she returned; “It can be a different matter to look at, when you recognize the face.”

He hesitated, seeing her point. It’d never occurred to ask her before; perhaps it was for reason beside mere thoughtlessness.

If Belle described herself among the masses - jostling elbow to elbow at a stall to buy bread that’d been cut with chalk; shuffling down alleys of falling-down staircases and overflowing cesspools - then he would have to picture her there. And live with that image; that reality.

“It’s true I may not have inquired before now, aware it might make you uncomfortable to answer - or that it might make me just as uncomfortable to hear it,” he admitted.

He pressed fingertip to table, compulsively straightening his napkin.

“But, if you feel no shame in the difference between our situations, then I refuse to do anything to imply shame should be felt.” Conviction renewed: “Come, Miss Belle; there must be _some_ recent happening you could share - some minor joy or tedious frustration. No matter how mundane, I’ve faith in your ability to make it become interesting in the relating.”

“There is no swaying you,” she realized, smiling wryly.

“No, not at all. But please, do go on.” He nodded his encouragement.

She gave half a laugh, eyes drifting upward as she contemplated. “Oh well, let me think! Why don’t you ask me questions instead - what would you like to know?”

“You mentioned meeting ‘old friends’,” he tried. “I do hope you’ve been able to keep in touch with those you might not see so often; those companions that are important to you?”

“Oh yes, no worries there! Even if we don’t keep the same hours, we girls are accustomed to looking out for one another. A bond not easily shaken.” She shifted, hands in her lap. “And I do still live in the same neighborhood, at present. We cross paths even when we’re not looking.”

“You’ve made no progress on finding new lodgings? I know you’d spoken on it as an intention, before.”

“I have made progress, yes; actually. Set enough aside so as to not be anxious as the expenses go up. Done my research into spots that look promising. None are so far away from here, thankfully.”

“Is there...some reason you hesitate, then? It sounds as if there’s resource aplenty to make the shift.”

“No real reason, I suppose. Only it can be hard to commit to such a change, sometimes…”

He chuckled softly. “That I know well.”

“Yeah. Of course you’d understand.” She smiled. “I’ve done decently before now, you realize. It might be a furnished room on the cheap; but it’s a monthly rent, not a nightly one.”

“Oh, yes. I am aware of that.”

Perhaps, from sounds of it, she could only afford residence at an old house, a ‘furnished room’ - furnished, that is, with the most threadbare items - stretched further by sharing the space, perhaps even the bed with a friend; still he knew it far better circumstance than many a lone individual in poverty.

Those never sure of daily income took beds for a few pennies a night at a lodging-house, when they could. When they couldn’t, they had the paving-stones and trash in the street.

A harsh, miserable state - one many constantly teetered on brink of. Once fallen into, nearly impossible to claw back out. For Belle to have avoided it...she must have been careful, thrifty; and perhaps lucky.

Perhaps having experienced poverty in a household as a child had prepared her to be sharp around money, when the time came.

He knew that well for himself, too.

“I think that I will be ready to move on, by end of summer,” Belle stated. “Right before the harvesters come back into town.”

“Yes, a good timing for it - best to avoid the competition. And as it begins to grow colder, you’ll be much glad for having less of a walk.”

“Oh I don’t mind so much - a nice long ramble through the city. You can spy all sorts of happenings in the odd hours. But yes, you’re right; it’ll make things easier on me. More comfortable.”

“And it will also be more comfortable having it to yourself.” He remarked, “Or...will it be strange, for you? Have you ever lived alone before?”

Belle frowned - a sourness twisting her mouth; his notice caught at once for the oddity.

“No. I haven’t,” she responded, slow. “It’ll take some getting used to. But...I think it’ll be relief to get clear of my current roommate, actually. Had it out with her quite a lot, these past months.”

“You have?” He was astonished. “It’s hard to picture you quarreling with anyone.”

“I’m afraid she manages it.” She frowned harder; gaze down on hands folded tightly. “She’s not precisely a friend, you see. It’s more we knew each other from about, both needed a partner to pay her share...you understand.”

“Yes - yes, I think I follow. Outside of that, you may not have spent much time together? Do you, er...not approve of her?”

“Oh, she’s all right. I mean, there’s nothing _wrong_ with her, exactly. But she’s of an ill-used disposition; she takes offense so easily. And...she drinks. She drinks a lot, I’m afraid. More and more, each day.”

He sucked in a slight breath. Recalling previous statements about women she knew that’d fallen into addiction. Markedly unpleasant, to watch up close.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he went carefully; soft. “At risk of sounding heartless...it can be difficult to dissuade such people from their path.”

Sounds echoed in memory brought a twinge inside his skull. His mother sobbing; glass shattering as his father roared.

His father wasn’t a drunkard, precisely - but he did drink. Things always got worse when he did.

“After a certain point, you...you cannot allow yourself to be responsible, for another’s choices,” he continued. “And, since you say you weren’t close friends to begin with, I imagine she will not let you help.”

“No, and I’m not about to wear myself out for her. You are right: it’s harsh, but I don’t owe her that much. Still, I at least try to be nice to her.” She sighed in exasperation. “She does make it difficult. That lovely new dress, the one I had made-”

“Oh yes,” he seized onto something positive; “I wondered how that turned out!”

“The dress itself turned out splendidly - pale blue, with a bit of ruffle. I was saving it aside though, I wanted the first time I wore it to be special. Had it tucked in back of the closet. Well I came home last month and everything was a mess - things left out, tossed all over. Aggie said she was looking for something. Well that’s all right, maybe, but I found my dress...my new, unworn dress,” she huffed in a way that betrayed she tried not to grow visibly angry, “crumpled up on the floor. All wrinkled, something red and smelly spilled down the front of it. Cheap wine, probably.”

Scrooge stared at her, speechless with concern.

“So back it had to go to the shop, to get repaired. Now I keep it well hidden, you’d best believe. If I’d an iron safe, I would lock it away!”

Belle shook her head.

“She said it was an accident. There’s no point in calling her out a liar, but I don’t think I can believe her. She’s been after me, ever since I took this job...mouthing off how I think I’m better than everyone else now; that I’m putting on airs.”

“What an awful thing to do, and an equally rude thing to say. Why, I can think of very few of whom that’d be _less_ true than yourself! I’m afraid it’s common among those that drink - they imagine everyone to be looking down on them, and are ready to pick fight over it at a moment’s notice.”

“Oh, Aggie is expert at picking fights - a thing I never did much like about her.” Belle rolled her eyes. “I ignore it, usually. She can’t get to me that way. When she brings someone else into it, though - well, then it can’t be helped.”

“What do you mean?”

“She says rude things about _you_ , I’m afraid. I won’t repeat specifics but...about your character; all sort of vulgar insinuations about why you _really_ hired me. What I actually do, as your assistant.”

Her frown stern, she rose to her feet; going to retrieve the kettle.

“She can jump to any conclusion about me, no matter how wrongheaded. But I’ve told her to leave you out of it. I don’t stand for hearing it.”

Maybe some would be flattered hearing their names defended. Scrooge, however, was anything but.

“Miss Belle...there’s really no need…” He reminded her, uncomfortable, “You had some notions of what type of man I was yourself, before we met; I have earned to be thought most ill of, by reputation.”

“Well, I know differently now.” She glanced over at him, briefly. “Don’t think so much of it, sir - I’d act the same for any of my friends. It’s an ugly sort of petty, to insult a person somebody cares about to their face. I’m not about to put up with it. Agnes Newell isn’t the only one I’ve had to make that clear to.”

“In general,” he felt rising alarm, “or on the subject of...myself?”

“About you,” she said, unhesitant. She brought kettle to the table and poured the water in, to ready their tea. “I’m not surprised by some people’s opinions - I try not to be sharp when I set them right.”

The alarm had him fully now; he grew queasy with it.

“You shouldn’t place yourself in the middle like that. I dislike thinking I could be cause for argument with friends you’ve had for years,” he protested. “That it could damage those relationships...I am not worth that.”

“Oh, nevermind,” she said dismissively, not seeming to realize he was upset. Standing now at her end of the table, she looked at him. “It’s my decision, whether you’re worth defending.”

Her decision, perhaps – still, it didn’t feel right. That she might in effect choose _him_ over other companions.

How wretched; that it might come out of a misplaced, foolish affection. Yet another reason to squirm in discomfort.

But even if her fondness was what he preferred it to be, only friendship…still, that wasn’t reason enough. She should not do battle in his name. He was a blighted cause.

If she’d decided he was worth defending, he realized with gradual, somber certainty; it was because she did not have the full picture; the truth of what he’d been, before.

“Miss Belle - you should not have done that. And you should not do it in the future. I fear that you have unknowingly made a mistake. Well-intentioned, but: a mistake.”

His voice hoarse, he swallowed; before he went on.

“To associate with me is one thing. But, to _defend_ me - to stand up in my name, to make yourself a target for ire that’s aimed in my direction...I can think of no cause that deserves it less. I do not deserve to be defended from defamation; particularly by one such as yourself. Both of your background and...character.”

He hung his head, slightly.

From corner of his eye he could see the light coming from room adjacent - the light of three broad windows that’d been his illumination, the Christmas Day that he watched Mary Cratchit.

He didn’t have to turn, look into that room entirely, to picture it.

Though he lifted head determinedly to gaze at whom he addressed in the present, his body was heavy with weight of memory bearing down.

“You have an idea of who I am, Miss Belle...but only an idea. You have but known me a short time; and you put more faith perhaps by what you have witnessed, rather than what you have heard. An otherwise wise and...scientific manner of reaching a conclusion. But in this case, it’s left you far short of the truth.”

She stared in wide-eyed perplexity. “Mr. Ebenezer-”

“ _No_ ,” he snapped, firm as he’d ever been with her. “No. I must speak - and you must listen, and listen well! This is something which needs to be said.”

Her eyes grew even wider - but she remained silent.

He breathed shallowly through parted mouth, gathering reserve. He declared:

“Whatever it is that you think the worst thing I have ever done is; I have done something worse. I promise you. Whatever crime, whatever act, you have imagined...I have done something _worse._ ”

The already still room seemed to grow more still. Recrimination crawled against his skin - the air felt thick, heated with it. Difficult as it was he would not let himself look away as he went on; he would not let himself even blink.

He would face this. He was forced to face it before - he would not be coward again.

“I would describe it further,” he emphasized, hand half-raised; “I would tell you more. The only reason I do not is because it concerns another person, who has been harmed enough already...one who I do not think would wish for any to know the details of what occurred. Even in anonymity.”

He couldn’t resist it - he turned his head. All he could make out of the other room was the wall, the edge of the fireplace.

The fireplace upon which he’d once placed twenty pounds cash.

_‘...along with the ten I have put down, as a deposit on your virtue.’_

It seemed a farce, almost.

For here he sat again. Sinking back into his chair - across from him standing a vulnerable woman; forced to listen to him speak.

Again one whose face changed slowly, expression shifting as she heard him. Shocked realization coming.

His palm drifted to the surface of the table. His shoulders lowered, weary.

“No,” he admitted, a realization of his own; “there’s another reason I do not tell you the whole story. A part of me fears...that even if you knew the full details; because you are a kind person, who cares deeply for those you surround yourself with - you would forgive me anyway.” His voice shook; “And, if you did...there's a chance that I might actually believe you.”

His hand clenched into a fist.

“But I do not deserve forgiveness. Not from you, nor anyone. I do not _want_ forgiveness. And I shall never have it.”

Belle’s eyes remained wide. They glinted, full to the brim with - something. He dared not deduce what.

Her lips twisted, as if she was swallowing sickness.

She stared at him, throat working. Then glanced away; in contemplation, or perhaps merely to gather herself - what could he do but wait.

When she looked back, she considered him another weighty moment.

At last she broke silence with a single, quiet question:

“Would you ever do it again?”

A beat, as he registered what he had heard. Then:

“No,” he answered vehemently, without further hesitation. “Never.”

Swallowing again, Belle nodded very slowly; seemingly to herself.

Other than that her expression was unreadable. It had closed off to him.

“All right then,” she said, sniffling; determined.

She said nothing more. Instead she moved forward to the table, checked the teapot, then reached over to evenly pour into his cup.

Scrooge watched, hanging on her every action numbly. Her hands never trembled.

She added the tiniest amount of sugar to his tea for him, plinking off the spoon delicately.

Then she poured her own cup. Then she added her sugar and milk. Then she sat down, absently smoothing her braid into place.

She was composed, her face blank. She began spreading jam on half a biscuit.

He couldn’t take it - she must not have understood. She couldn't possibly have understood, to be acting this way. Forgetting himself, his voice broke with emotion as he steeled to try again.

“Belle-”

 _“No,”_ she interrupted fiercely, pointing with her utensil. “You have had your turn, Mr. Ebenezer! Now it is _I_ who will speak, and you who must listen.”

There was an intensity in her he’d never seen before. Something beyond anger.

“Before we ever crossed paths, it’s true - I heard things about you. For years I heard them; many things.” She sniffled again, fussing with her plate. “They painted quite a picture.”

His voice had died in his throat. Somehow he was more uncomfortable than before, when he was speaking.

His eyes began to burn and prickle as he listened to her, not knowing what was happening.

“The man that I imagined, from those stories…” She bit her lip; head shaking with rueful smile. “I couldn’t even begin to describe. But then...I met you.”

She paused. Moving salad leaves, with a fork she clutched too tightly.

“Right from the start, I was confused. Even from the beginning, I could tell you weren’t what I would’ve thought. Then as time passed, and I came to know you better…”

Mouth working, brow furrowed briefly, she thought what next to say.

“You were someone else, once. Now, you are not. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

She nodded again to herself - satisfied with this conclusion.

He opened mouth to object; as if Belle knew she gazed at him, meeting him straight in the eye.

“That man, who I heard so much about, is gone. And he’s not coming back. I will never meet him. And glad I am, for it.”

She took a sip of her tea.

“I will not judge you by his actions, or his choices. I can only hold you accountable for your own.”

His _own_ actions, his _own_ choices - that wasn’t exactly erasure of the past. The man he was at present still had to live by the consequences he’d garnered.

It wasn’t forgiveness. To forgive would mean dealing with something that’d come before her entry into his life - and she wanted nothing to do with that.

Belle had made herself very clear. She would only judge him by what happened while she knew him.

Presumably, that included just now - when he told her everything that he had.

Scrooge didn’t know what to say in response. He drew a breath and even that came so shakily.

“All right then,” he managed at last. “If...if that’s all that needs saying…”

“I think that it is,” Belle said crisply, not looking up again.

“Ah. Then...then we will consider the matter...settled.”

Not quite sure what he did, he began examining the contents of his own plate. Considering what he even wanted.

“Pardon me, sir - but it seems you must have something caught in your eye,” Belle commented. “You may wish to attend to it.”

“...Oh.”

With a sniff, Ebenezer Scrooge pressed fingertips to the corner of his cheek; smudging away the tear that’d fallen.

“Thank you, Miss Belle.”

She gave a small smile, gazing into her tea. “Not at all, sir.”


	16. Never Dreamed

_He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. - Stave Five: The End of It_

In the wake of Fred’s family’s departure, the city grew...more sedate; more constrained, in its spirit.

If nothing particularly stopped happening this time of year, things did seem to happen _less_ , with less urgency. These were the summer months - the wealthy fled from rising heat of pavement and stench of the river to their rural estates; machination of both government and high-class leisure faltered without them. The middle-class took this time to visit that country relative, or rent a house at the seaside. The street entertainers and vendors who made livelihood off crowds followed if they could. The poor, if not rooted by obligation, left to work farms outside the city until the harvest.

London never became quiet, never came to a standstill. Any visitor would find it a busy, crowded place. For the resident however it’d slipped into a kind of torpor - a half-life.

Ebenezer Scrooge felt progressively disgruntled. Though he’d prepared himself, he couldn’t adjust easily to the hole in his schedule - far larger than first thought.

There was no weekly dinner to attend. No day-trips with the children. No flurry of notes going back and forth, to inquire and plan.

He would think on something that he must tell one of the Clarksons, next he saw them - only to remember it wouldn’t be any time soon. Vexed almost daily by realization.

The last he experienced something like this was when he’d lost Marley. The difference was then, sharp grief accompanied each moment; crystallizing poignancy compelling him to remember why he should not anticipate such things.

This was far less painful - merely an ongoing, lingering disappointment. Still, it wasn’t pleasant.

The building discomfort culminated in festering annoyance; prodding him to seek action. There was little related action to take, under present circumstances - yet outlet must be found.

On his own, entirely his volition, he made return trip to the toy shop - able to find the way as if by some ingrained miracle, for those early days of January felt long ago.

But he had, after all, promised Peter he’d seek replacement for his broken castle.

His hope of straightforward errand was dissuaded when the model wasn’t on the shelves; however the sales clerk he approached was remarkably sympathetic. After some consultation of catalogues, it was discovered that particular item was no longer manufactured.

Inquiries could be made to see if a leftover remained hidden somewhere, if he was interested?

Scrooge chose an easier path, allowing himself to be persuaded on a slightly upgraded model - boasting more elaborate ramparts, a whole extra turret; and space by the moat, supposing the ambitious wished to create an actual one; above which of course was still a mechanical drawbridge that could be raised and lowered.

Buoyed by success, anticipation, and the having of an actual pleasant interaction with a salesclerk, he entertained further notions.

And so he placed an order for two minuscule toy cannons that could be loaded with pellets of wadded-up paper, and used real saltpeter to fire. The salesclerk sensibly warned they should probably not be used in actual conjunction with the castle. After all the scale was off, the cannons being slightly larger; and they were anachronistic by a few centuries - and also, sparks from even tiny cannon-fire could potentially catch.

Still, Scrooge was confident Peter would enjoy rolling them about, setting off volleys outdoors; perhaps he could engage in mock warfare with his brother - under strictest supervision.

Pleased, he’d turned to leave the shop when an additional item caught his eye.

The next day was by coincidence a Thursday. Around time he would’ve begun readying for dinner he tried distracting himself: standing in his front lawn, giving empty grass serious consideration.

Though it wasn’t entirely in fashion - maintaining pristine flats of green was, as he understood - he’d begun to think perhaps the space could do with a small garden, of some sort.

“Hello there, Mr. Scrooge!”

“Oh, good afternoon, Marty.” He didn’t turn at the boy’s shout, half-caught in contemplation.

Without pause the lad pushed past the gate, came walking in.

“Real scorcher, isn’t it. Was hoping I’d find you about today, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did...although I too am glad you’ve stopped by. I have something for you.”

Marty stopped in his tracks, perking up with interest. “You do?”

“Yes - wait right here.”

He entered his house, returned within a moment; carrying a small rectangle wrapped in brown paper, thin but nearly a foot long.

He handed it down to Marty, who took it with both hands.

“Oof - heavier than it looks, this,” he commented, eyeing it curiously. “So where’s it off to, then?”

“Right here. I’m not having it delivered, Marty - it’s a gift: for you.”

“What.. _.me?_ ” He went completely still with surprise. “You mean it, sir? Really?”

Scrooge had to smile. “Yes. I do.” He nodded at the parcel. “Well, go on then. Open-”

He needn’t have spoken: didn’t even fully get out words of encouragement before Marty tore into the paper, ripping it with flourish. That moment of uncertainty bowled over by eager yearning.

Scrooge was hardly stymied. He’d more firsthand knowledge of children by now.

Beneath the simple wrapping was revealed a gleaming toy steam engine, cast in metal, painted red and black with bits of silver and yellow.

Marty stilled again, mouth falling partially open as he beheld it.

“I was told this model most resembles the long-distance passenger trains. Hopefully that’s all right.”

“‘All right’? It’s more than all right, Mr. Scrooge; it’s...it’s _beautiful._ ” The lad grasped an end each in a palm, holding it slightly away to take it in better. “You really did get this just for me?”

“Yes, I did; I thought...I _hoped_ that you would like it.” His smile softened. “I know you said none of your family wishes to encourage your interests, Marty. I felt perhaps that...if only a little, somebody should.”

Marty had begun turning the train back and forth, swiftly though also almost comically careful with the precious gift.

He moved the wheels and tried peering into the little windows; brightly pointing out one part then another, using the technical terms of an expert.

Scrooge did not complete his thoughts aloud: that he acutely remembered the conversation they’d had, about Marty’s dreams and aspirations.

If he grew out of his interests into something else, that was one thing - Scrooge didn’t want to see them dropped because of simple dejection. So long as this little boy in his patchy oversized clothes still wanted to one day work the tracks, ride the rails, whatever else there was to do in the locomotive business - he would diligently cheer him on.

At last Marty ran short of breath, chirped words blending together; he stopped, huffing.

Scrooge was on verge of asking if he should fetch a glass of water, when the boy looked up at him.

“I’m more glad than ever I came to talk with you, sir,” he declared, with ferocity that caught Scrooge off-guard. “There’s something real important I’ve got to tell you! That I need to warn you about!”

“W -- _warn_ me, Marty?” he repeated, bewildered. “What could you possibly have to warn me about?”

Beneath lank blond fringe, the small eyes narrowed. “You’re being followed, sir.”

He had to scoff at once. “Oh, yes, of course...come now. There’s no need for these particular flights of fancy-”

“I’m serious! I seen him hanging about the front of your house sometimes. And when you leave he’ll trail after you at a distance, so’s you don’t notice.”

He frowned. “Who? Who is it that you see?”

“Dunno. But he’s a real shifty type,” the boy intoned. “Skinny like a mule gone to the tanner, with a short jacket and a flat cap, and a bad look on his face; like he’s always up to no good. He’s got brown hair, and a little scar under one eye, on his cheek.”

“That doesn’t sound like anyone I know,” he said, hesitant.

“It’s been going on for weeks now. I waited, to be sure it weren’t no coincidence; or see if I could figure for myself what it is that he’s after. But it’s still a mystery to me.”

“ _Wasn’t_ a coincidence, Marty,” he corrected absently.

The mental picture was a disquieting one - still, that could describe quite a few men in London. Looking unseemly and well-worn didn’t make one stand out.

He tried to think who could be following him, and why; truth was he found no shortage of answers. It could as easily be a thug hired by a former associate, as an out-of-work laborer with grievance all their own.

Standing about on the street, even suspiciously, wasn’t a crime. The police force wouldn’t be moved to investigate something so sparse, if he summoned them; an act he would not engage in lightly.

Still, if he was more perturbed than worried on his own behalf - there remained some concerns.

“This man that you describe, the one you keep seeing. Does he appear...would you describe him as physically intimidating?”

“Not really. He’s three times my size but I could take him,” Marty declared with streetwise sincerity.

He had to chuckle. “All right. And am I the only one you see him following? He doesn’t ever wait for my maid, or my assistant?”

He’d momentarily alarm for Belle: some shadowy figure from her past? She never mentioned enemies of her own, though that wouldn’t prevent an unknown grudge from trailing after her.

But Marty shook his head.

“He doesn’t bother about either of them. Sometimes he’ll follow when Miss Belle’s with you, but it’s still you I think he’s following.”

“I see.”

Collecting information then, he assumed. If the intention was to threaten, they’d want to be noticed.

He had... _some_ experience, in these matters. There was time when Scrooge and Marley had their own short list of associates to engage in certain work.

Perhaps one who’d been a more honest man than himself, or simply a different one, would be worried.

But Scrooge was nothing if not stubborn, and still inclined to pride.

He’d no idea who was trying to spy on him; he found he didn’t care. There was nothing he did now to have shame over, legal or moral. If somebody wanted to waste time mapping his footsteps, let them.

The invasion of privacy rankled, this was true. But he made up his mind at once, not to be annoyed - he wouldn’t give whoever it was the satisfaction.

If they wished to confront him, obviously they knew where to find him. They could do it to his face.

Until then, they’d get nothing.

“Thank you for telling me about this, Marty. I’m afraid I cannot offer you any answers; and frankly I am uninterested in finding them. If all this... _fellow_ wishes to do is stare after me as I go about my business, then he’s free to do so. I will not let myself be bothered.”

“I’ll still keep an eye on him though,” Marty announced, clutching the toy train to his chest.

“If you wish. Don’t let him keep you, however, from the rest of your life. From your work...and your leisure. From what’s important to you.”

Moved by sudden impulse, he reached down - giving an affectionate pat on Marty’s head, the part not covered by his hat; tousling his hair slightly.

Scrooge smiled at him fondly.

“I am more than capable of defending myself - just as you are.”

In the days after, he was determined to follow his own advice. When he left home he did not look about, he did not so much as glance at faces of passersby. If Lot’s wife had been half so good at not looking back while walking, the ending to that Biblical tale would have been different indeed.

However he couldn’t strike himself blind. And awareness of a thing, he’d learnt again and again, often made it harder not to notice; even when one preferred otherwise.

London remained a crowded city, but during broad daylight familiarity stood out. So it was eventually, he did spot the man Marty described.

If he realized that Scrooge saw him, he gave no sign - perhaps he too, did not care. From what Scrooge could tell - he endeavored not to look too closely - he was a grubby sort of figure; like the very kind paid to do this type of thing.

So, not a personal matter to him; only a job. That was somehow comforting.

He did not always or even often see the man, although that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. His presence was disquieting, but it hardly registered a threat.

Scrooge would not waste time on thought of him. He’d much else to attend to.

There were so many issues plaguing the poor, he really didn’t know where to begin - so he’d decided to look into all of them. Sanitation and access to clean drinking water; fair wages and working conditions; controls on price and quality of medicine, of cloth, of bread; assistance for orphan children, for unwed mothers, for injured workers, for immigrants; lack of suitable education, housing, doctors, burial grounds. The list appeared endless. For every aspect of life, from birth to death, the less fortunate struggled.

He spoke with City officials and employees. He visited facilities. He sat in on meetings and questioned aid workers. He researched charities and read studies. When possible he walked through the slums, knocked on doors, politely interviewed people in their homes and saw their circumstances for himself.

He took to carrying a small book and pencil; jotting copious notes. Back home he’d copy them out long-hand, attempting to organize his thoughts into plans.

Belle usually accompanied him. She already knew the way, more than half the time, and remained adept at ‘translating’ him. She knew the ins and outs of rougher life in the city - knew to look for things he might miss, how to ask the right questions. And if distributing blankets or toys or food, two sets of hands certainly carried more items.

Once she invited him along to supper with some of her friends - four other ladies who met regularly at a finish, an eating establishment catering to those still out on the town after the dancing halls closed at one o’clock in the morning.

They were a tired but merry lot, catching up and trading gossip over steak pies and brandy. The notorious Agnes Newell wasn’t present, though he recognized two of the women as those he’d once spotted talking with Belle on a street corner, so very long ago.

Her friends were kind, and didn’t mind his questions. They accepted his offer to buy their dinners; took turns trying to fluster him with saucy banter, in-between explaining the particular difficulties of life in their situation.

The welcome wasn’t always so friendly; his own reputation preceded him still. Met with suspicion, disdain, at times even hostility.

It was tiring some days. He came home not only physically exhausted but defeated.

But this was not about praise, or gratitude. When it drained at him, he did best to brush it off; focus on whatever was next.

He couldn’t carry on this pace forever, of course. He was making up his mind. Eventually he’d narrow on which causes held his interest; where money was most needed, what would make true difference. He’d decide if he wished to join any existing charitable societies - perhaps even create a new one.

If he did however, it would not be in his own name. It would be in Jacob Marley’s.

His existence was not consumed entirely. He still broke daily for tea - Belle, of course, wouldn’t hear otherwise. Schedule flexible, the daylight lasting longer; one almost lost track. Conversations could last hours; a stroll through the park could take up an entire afternoon.

Valuable time being thrown away, so shamelessly. With little regret, or regard.

Even on days without Belle he took walks through the city, wandering. The weather was hot, he returned covered in dust - what stayed with him was how it all changed. Slowly, inexorably before his eyes.

The Exchange building, where he and Jacob Marley met as young men - where they’d labored many hours, tread the halls in conversation; endured and experienced, respectively, their way through Fezziwig’s Christmastime parties – it had burned down about five years before. Not a trace of it now remained.

A replacement was being constructed. It wouldn’t be ready until the fall, though a new statue had been erected out front of the Duke of Wellington.

Scrooge went down himself to have a look.

It was a pretty building, he supposed. Advanced in structure; classic in design with porticoes, pediments and friezes.

It bore little resemblance to the old - one was tempted to say, none whatsoever.

Of course, London wasn’t the only place in the world where things happened, though its residents often forgot.

A minor personal detail served to remind him - when his nephew’s first letter arrived.

Fred promised they would write him; with surprised delight Scrooge discovered they meant to keep very good on that. He’d a new letter twice a week, full of anecdote and misadventure. It was Fred who wrote, through him conveyed the family’s love - Scrooge could hear Ricky’s excited tones, Peter’s glad boasting, Mathilde’s careful observation, Charlotte’s sweet forthrightness. Even a sentence or two from Emilia, greetings and well-wishes; and from the wording, it could be supposed she actually said it.

The seaside was everything foreseen: they had their kite, and their sand castles, and their frolicking in the waves.

Peter played the gentleman of fortune, enjoying the fruits of his largess. Ricky utterly forgot he was cross with his great-uncle in eagerness to tell him everything. Charlotte had her first candied apple, in the process losing another baby tooth.

There’d be a scrawled, blotchy sentence one of the children insisted on adding themselves; in the margins Mathilde would sketch a bird, a flower.

A back to front page, sometimes two, of vacation minutiae. Scrooge pored over every word avidly - reading it twice, or thrice-over, revisiting his favorite parts; before he hurried to write response and send it off.

He carefully preserved each letter, keeping them inside his desk drawer.

Though, those letters weren’t the only things he had to read. After indecision and fussing, he’d settled his orders to the book shop.

Confessed himself leery of novels still undergoing their serialization; it was all very well - there was plenty of unplumbed fiction to choose from.

His interest in tales of seafaring adventure were indulged by _Percival Keene_ and _Poor Jack._ He scrutinized his way through _The Young Duke_. He was captivated by _Lodore,_ enough to see the author’s other works - perhaps even those he would’ve formerly dismissed as macabre flights of fancy. He admitted, begrudgingly, the popular raving over _Ten Thousand a-Year_ had been somewhat justified.

He ordered some books on horticulture too, thinking come next spring he’d see about the garden. And remembering Mathilde’s fondness for Jane Austen, he added on a copy of _Persuasion_.

He’d come by enough faith in the bookseller that he’d relented under persistent recommendation into giving _Waverley_ a try. Though, he’d doubts he would enjoy anything written by a poet; and about Scotland at that.

He’d gotten far as the fifth chapter, intending to halfheartedly continue before the day began, but was perplexed that he couldn’t find it anywhere.

“Miss Jenny?” he called.

Quickly she stepped into the room, summoned by his voice.

She stood in the corner by the bookcase, vibrating dutiful anxious energy while yet remaining perfectly still.

“Aye, sir?”

“I can’t seem to locate the book I’ve been reading...but now, I am _certain_ I left it in here.” He glanced about as if it would manifest. “A sizable novel; it has a green and tan cover.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You...you left it in this room, sir? Where do you think you last saw it, if I might ask?”

“It was right here, on the cushion of this chair.”

“I-I’m dreadful sorry, sir. Yesterday I was dusting in here, and to do so I took all the books from the shelves.” She gestured behind her. “I think...I think when I went to put them back, that I must’ve-”

“You saw the book on the chair and mistakenly thought it belonged with the rest, that it’d been misplaced,” he finished with a sigh. “Yes, I understand. It is all right, Miss Jenny...no real harm done.”

Turning away, he spoke idly, “Well, if you would; please retrieve it for me. The title is _Waverley_ , and the author is Scott.”

“A-aye, sir…”

There was unmistakable hesitation in her voice. He glanced back.

Jenny stood before the bookcase, hand hovering over her mouth.

After long pause, pale with indecision, she reached toward a green and tan volume that was very much not _Waverley_ by Scott.

She paused again. He heard her breathe in a fretful sniff.

The realization was absolute as it was sudden.

“You don’t know how to read, do you?”

She turned around, eyes immediately dropping to the floor. “No, sir.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. Half a year she’d been in his employ. He had never seen her show interest in his newspapers or books. He’d never left a note for her or asked her to write anything down. She knew how to count and measure, but he supposed such things could be learned through observation.

It was well-known laborers and servants were often illiterate. Why had he assumed?

“Somehow it never occurred to me…” At her nervousness, he had to chuckle wearily. “It is all right, Miss Jenny. The fault here is not yours, but mine.”

He came toward the bookcase. She ducked her head, stepping back to make ample room for him.

“I never asked and it is, admittedly, not a requirement of your position.” He slid the novel free, heading to his chair. “You’ll have to pardon my thoughtless rudeness.”

“Not at all, sir,” she murmured. “It’s all right…it was only a misunderstanding.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Jenny. Forgive my interruption of your work, then.”

She nodded, taking that as cue to leave – it was, only the very next second another thought occurred to him. He cleared his throat and she stilled, startled.

“You’ve expressed such concern over your brothers’ education – yet you have no thought for your own?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Why - surely you could also be setting money aside to pay for your own lessons.”

She gave a bemused smile that seemed entirely involuntary.

“Why would I be wanting to do that, sir?”

He could only stare at her. After a moment, realizing he’d no response, she elaborated.

“There’s no need for me to learn such things, sir. What good would it do? My brothers might be able to find better work one day, if they know their letters. They can earn higher wages, improve their station.

“But there’s no new opportunities open to a woman. If anything, I hear that the mistresses of finer households are suspicious of a maid that can read. They think she’ll be nosing into everyone’s secrets.”

He had not pitied or disdained her illiteracy. But this indifferent revelation left him stunned.

“Oh,” he replied. “I…well…if you say so. All right, then.”

She returned to her work – rather than pick up his reading, he sat down; gazing into space.

Despite what he’d said, it did not feel “all right”. In fact, it left him feeling rather dissatisfied.

“Good morning, Mr. Ebenezer!”

He emerged from his reverie. “Good morning, Miss Belle. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, same as always, I believe,” she mused while removing her gloves and hat. “Though I’m trying to take care; fingers crossed I’ll get through this turn of season without catching a cold. It seems to happen most every year-”

“Like clockwork,” he finished with half a smile.

Belle set her bag on an end-table, rifled through it; pulling forth a little blue-bound book. She came to him, holding it out.

“Here you are, then. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

“Oh, you’ve finished already?”

Another novel – he offered each in loan to her soon as he’d finished reading it.

Nearly always, she pounced on the opportunity.

“Well, it wasn’t that long. And I do confess, I get a bit more engaged when the main character’s a lady. Men and boys, when left to make the story happen, they can be so frustrating.”

“So you did enjoy it then?” He stood, looking at the book in his hand. “I wasn’t certain what to make of it. If intended as a deliberate alternative to the Newgate genre, it seems to have turned out rather seedy itself.”

“I liked it, I think; it was exciting in places. If it isn’t the best I’ve ever read, certainly it’s not the worst – and there’s something clever about how Catherine is written. She _is_ vicious; yet you can’t help relating to her all the same.”

“She can be relatable, perhaps. Not entirely sympathetic.”

“Well, she is based on a true-life murderess, Mr. Ebenezer: what can one expect? But I’d be willing to look out for the author, if he ever writes another.”

He considered the book again. “Perhaps you should have this back, then. You can keep it.”

“Oh no - that’s kind of you, but I couldn’t!”

“It sounds as if you found more enjoyment in it than I. You’re right in that it’s not the worst; however, I don’t see myself ever reading it again.”

She hesitated and he held it out to her, with insistent smile.

“Something for the shelves at your new residence.”

“Well, all right,” she surrendered brightly, taking it from him. “Thank you, again.”

“You’re very welcome; it’s my pleasure.”

For a moment she stood there, holding it close to her in both hands: head lowered, smiling at the blue cover as if it were a small personal treasure.

Perhaps it was the first new book she’d owned herself in awhile. Perhaps even, it was the only she ever had.

He was struck by the difference; between her reaction to the idea of reading, and that of his maid.

As Belle turned to tuck the object away again, he began:

“You know…just this morning, I’d the belated discovery that Miss Jenny does not know how to read.”

“Oh, well that’s a shame. Not terribly uncommon though, actually. Particularly given her situation, and all.”

“Yes, of course I realized almost right away - therefore it is now, then, something else occurs to me.” He paused, trying to avoid embarrassment. “It...well. Having grown up, as I did, in close proximity with my sister -- who was so far ahead of things as to even be beyond the time at present -- in consequence, often I forget general opinion on the education of young girls is to find it unnecessary, even superfluous, particularly for the lower classes…”

He looked up - Belle was watching him. His tone grew more delicate.

“And, though I’d accepted it without a second’s consideration before now -- a-and of course the truth of it doesn’t really matter; it makes no difference at all -- still I find myself curious; perhaps improperly so-”

“Are you trying to inquire how it is that I know how to read?” Belle interrupted, sweetly amused.

“Well - yes,” he exhaled heavily.

Though she continued smiling, he was uncertain of her expression.

“I hope you take no offense: there is no judgment in the question...merely an honest curiosity.”

“Yes, only curiosity _could_ you make you ask that. There is no practical reason you’d need to know.”

She mused aloud, chipper. Drifting about the floor, doing the usual tasks she would to ready for the day: checking the wicks, setting out his inkwell, opening the curtains and so forth.

“It isn’t often you inquire into another person out of curiosity, Mr. Ebenezer. I must say, I find it a good look on you. It makes it appear as if you’re actually interested.”

He trailed after as she moved into the next room, unable to respond.

Absent smile still on her lips, Belle laid items across his desk; holding onto some private amusement.

“It’s true, I received no formal schooling. My mother taught me. For where we were, she was rather _over_ -educated. And, of that she passed on what she could to me. How to read, to write; some basic arithmetic, geography…”

Offhand scoffing laughter.

“We had no piano, so I couldn’t learn to play - and no servants, so I couldn’t learn to manage a household. And I’m afraid I wasn’t able to retain a word of French; could never make any sense of it. She _did_ teach me to sew - not only embroidery. How to mend almost anything, tidily. That's how I make my clothes last so long. I have the most gentlewomanly stitching…”

She paused. Wryly commenting, “If I’d been thinking clearly, at the time, perhaps I should’ve looked into finding work as a seamstress.”

She meant back when she was left abruptly on her own, he realized.

Approaching her, with tentative and hopeful expression he went, “I pray it isn’t wrong of me to remark, that I might be glad you didn’t?”

The wryness disappeared. She smiled back at him at once.

“No, of course not!” Belle agreed. “Then we would have never met.”

A fact, she’d made clear before, she was highly glad. A sentiment they shared.

What a strange puzzle was the life of a man - when looked at askance, he couldn’t see entirely where one aspect ended and another began.

How might he have acted differently at times, without influence? What ripples did the path of each soul he crossed leave behind?

It was interlocking confusion, each detail touching uncounted others. No matter how far he tried to pull himself apart, he could never make sense of it all.

But he liked what he had no less, for that being the case.

Maybe he didn’t need to understand.

He went to meetings and he spoke to people and he took his notes. He’d his breakfasts in bed, his breaks in the afternoon, his dinners at the usual tavern.

He took long walks in the city. He visited Miss Thwaites every Tuesday. He received letter after letter. He read the newspapers and managed his lawsuits and greeted faces he recognized in the street. He tucked into bed every night with his cat and a book. He slept well, and dreamed of pleasant nothing.

In this way, time passed - and before long, it was nearly August.

The calendar was the main indication; summer weather certainly hadn’t passed. The heat hung, making it almost hard to breathe. The dust choking the streets didn’t help, nor the shifting winds carrying the river’s fetor.

Belle hypothesized it might be better if they tried working on the lawn, but he could not bring himself around to transporting so much - pens, ink, stationery, documents.

Besides, he honestly didn’t know it’d be improvement - air circulated about the same, out of doors.

One day he was stretched in his chair, eyes closed, boots on a footrest. His seat pushed to the coolest corner of his office; brow furrowed in effort of not noticing the sweat which clung upon it. Belle again tried winning him over on penny-bloods; attempting to read a segment aloud to him, interwoven with the usual articles from the morning newspaper - he’d again rebuffed her.

It was too warm to be drawn into debate. He’d sunken into steadfast silence.

Defeated, Belle continued with her reading; something to do with preparations for an upcoming visit from the King of the French - when their attentions were caught by sounds of a passing carriage.

Specifically: above the clacking of wheels and clopping of hooves, the sound of a boy ‘ _hallo’_ -ing at top of his lungs.

Scrooge’s eyes flew open. He exchanged a stare with Belle.

“Why, that sounds like…” she remarked.

“Could it be…” he began.

He stood up. Together they crowded at, peered out the nearest window, onto the street below.

Two carriages, laden with baggage, slowed before his gate. And leaning half his body out one’s window, bellowing eagerly-

“Oh, it _is_ Ricky!” exclaimed Belle.

“They’ve returned!” proclaimed Scrooge.

They’d turned to each other to exchange these observations; in similar unison turned from the window to hurry their way downstairs.

Scrooge paused, to wipe face and neck; check his clothes weren’t rumpled badly - Belle, on the other hand, took no pause before gathering up her skirts and bolting down the stairs in excitement.

Scrooge hardly _ran_ \- anticipation would not defeat dignity - but he wasn’t far behind her.

By time he descended the stairs, crossed the threshold, passed the lawn and was out the gate into the street; children were tumbling from their carriages with happy cries of _“Uncle Ebenezer!”_

“Good lord, Ricky,” he said, even as he embraced him, “you could do to be more careful! You shouldn’t hang from a carriage like - you might fall!”

“I wanted to ride on top - or on back, as if it were a dog-cart, and I the tiger,” Ricky declared, breaking from the squeeze he gave his great-uncle to hug Belle just as tightly. “But Father wouldn’t let me. If I’d been sitting with Peter though, I’m sure he’d have told me to go for it!”

“Well I’m just as glad you didn’t.” Belle patted him. “I’d hate if first I saw you in so long would be to watch you break your neck.”

“And _that_ is why when we’re divided between carriages, I never let the boys sit together,” Fred stated as he emerged. “If they’re not egging each other on, the eldest is giving questionable permission to all manner of mischief.”

“A _tiger_ , Ricky?” Scrooge had to say. “I feel as if I haven’t heard _that_ since I was practically your age.”

“He spent the whole trip obsessed with highwaymen.” Peter joined them, disgruntled; accepting greetings and affections gladly, however. “I gave him half a groat, you see, as a kindness; and he used it to buy his weight in candy-floss and licorice, and a cheap copy of _Rookwood_.”

“The non-stop litany of stagecoach lingo was less distressing, I feel, than the aftermath of his eating near the entire lot in a sitting,” noted Fred.

Belle joked, “Hopefully not the book, however.”

“No - unfortunately; at that point, I think it’d have only aided his digestion.”

“Welcome back, Fred,” his uncle said warmly, offering his hand.

Beaming, Fred gripped it tight and pulled him closer by the shoulder, the grown man’s approximation of a hug.

“Oh my,” the older man remarked as they parted, “look at your hair. Why - it’s practically turned yellow!”

“Isn’t it something?” Fred grinned, tousling the locks. “A summer near the coast always does it. If you think this is impressive, you should see-”

The door to the other carriage burst open with a wordless squeal of joy.

Scrooge turned at it, exalting, _“Charlotte!”_

The little girl leapt down, ran at him; he went toward her just as eagerly.

His arms spread, preemptive to intent to crouch down - she rushed forward; before he knew it, he was holding her in his arms.

“Uncle Ebenezer,” she declared, “spin me!”

“What?” he responded, unthinking. “Oh - all right.”

Simple as that, without paying true heed, Scrooge twirled right there in the street holding the child upright - being her willing merry-go-round as she cheered and giggled.

When he stopped at last, smiling broadly as he caught his breath, she was hugging him around his neck.

“I’ve missed you, Uncle Ebenezer!”

“Have you? I’ve missed you too, Charlotte - very much. Did you enjoy your time by the ocean?”

“Oh yes! It’s so big! And so very blue!” Her eyes wide at thought of it, even now. “Did you get our letters?”

“Why, of course I got your letters - every last one.” Gingerly he set her down. “They were wonderful.”

Mathilde was at the door of the carriage, and he offered a hand to assist her down.

“Particularly your drawings.”

“Oh, those weren’t _real_ drawings. They were nothing.” Smiling at the compliment, even as she corrected him. “Here though, Uncle Ebenezer - this is for you. I worked hard on it; I hope that you like it.”

She’d been holding a long rolled-up picture in her hand, cradling it - she handed it over.

“Oh - I’ll unwrap this inside. I don’t want to take even slightest risk of it getting dirty,” he decided, determining it to be precious. “Thank you, Mathilde; very much. You didn’t need to bring me anything, however. It’s simply so good to see you again.”

He felt such warmth to see her face – greater still when it crinkled with a smile, her returned enthusiasm for seeing _him_ again showing. They hugged one another; a gentler embrace than he’d had with her siblings, but no less ardent between both parties.

“And I _will_ make a point of noting, Uncle, our returning path of travel did indeed bring us past your house, rather naturally. I didn’t have to divert us, or cause any inconvenience.”

“Yes, yes; all right,” Scrooge said, dismissive, to Fred’s somber and significant teasing. “I believe you, Fred, since you make a point out of saying it. But honestly I wouldn’t have minded this time, even if you had gone out of your way – I am…so _happy_ , to welcome you back into the city. To see you all again, after such time apart.”

The children had crowded around him loosely, each face upturned with cheeriest affection. He scanned them, reminding himself of every feature; as if they’d been gone from him for months and months.

“My…how very brown you’ve all gotten.”

Awhile since he’d witnessed firsthand the effects a summer out of doors, away from soot and smog, could have on regular denizens of London.

Charlotte had indeed become almost blonde as Ricky. Ricky himself and his brother could’ve passed for cabin boys returned from a South Seas voyage. Mathilde likely was pressed upon to remember her hat by her mother, but freckles bloomed on her arms.

Fred’s ears and nose were actually somewhat red, the skin peeling.

“We’d perfect weather this year, Uncle, the whole time – it was marvelous. Not a single cloudy afternoon; not a drop of rain!”

“It could be considered just the thing, for some,” Emilia commented as her husband helped her out of the carriage. “However for a lengthy trip by the sea, it’s typical to assume one day or two will be spent trapped indoors by weather. To spend every waking hour, in the sun…I daresay it can grow tiresome.”

‘Tiresome’ perhaps a fitting word. She didn’t appear relaxed like the others. Indeed the skin under her eyes was weary, her face wan.

“Oh, Emilia…” Scrooge eyed her with surprised concern. “Forgive me, but – are you quite well?”

He’d never seen her so lacking in composure.

“I’m afraid I am not a good traveler. I never have been. A long journey takes much from me – though once arrived, after resting I recover well enough.”

“Shame no one thought to have mentioned that to me, before we left on our wedding tour.” Fred squeezed her hand, casting a gentle look. “I about worried myself into my own illness.”

“You bounced back in short order, after a day free from exertion; as did I.” Emilia spoke with sharpness even for her. “I don’t wish to cut short the reunion, but we should hurry along. There will be much to manage at home.”

“Oh – must you leave?” Scrooge went anxiously. “I know you’re eager to see your house of course, but – you’ve only just arrived…”

There’d been four-pronged groan of protest from the children – a chorus to the feeling inside him.

“You could…you could send the baggage on ahead, perhaps? I could pay the drivers to unpack the carriages for you, and help your servants put the things away; it would be my pleasure! It would be no trouble to me, at all.”

“Surely our cook and Sarah can manage, darling,” Fred offered. “We’ve already unloaded ourselves, so to speak – I know after stretching my legs, I’m in no hurry to huddle back in again. Even for a few blocks.”

“Although, there isn’t a meal being prepared and waiting, is there?” Belle asked politely, shooting an uncertain frown at Scrooge.

“No there isn’t, in fact. We made no plans – we weren’t entirely certain we’d be back today, you see.” Fred put hands in his pockets. “There was, finally, prediction of a terrific storm that would’ve made travel too precarious. We expected we might have to wait.”

“Well that settles it. You must all come inside, take off your dusty overcoats, fortify yourselves with some tea. And I will provide you with supper. I’ll have to send out, of course; it won’t be near as fine as any you’ve given me in your home-”

“Really, Uncle Scrooge – that is too much,” Emilia objected. But with half the volume and strength of normally.

The children were cheering and bouncing; enthusiastic over prospect of staying, as they were the novelty.

“Are you certain, Uncle?” Fred questioned. “We’re always glad to see you, of course. But it’s not too much an inconvenience?”

“I insist. If I didn’t want to, then I wouldn’t have offered.”

Solicitously, Scrooge held out a hand to his niece-by-marriage.

“Thanks to your input, I now have a lovely dining room table that’s yet to be broken in properly. You have invited me as a guest into your household many times, accorded me every civility – let me do my best now, to repay that courtesy,” he pressed in earnest.

The tiredness in Emilia’s face seemed to drag at her; she exhaled a sigh.

“All right, since you’re so insistent. I confess, it _will_ feel good to sit down properly; not inside a moving carriage.”

She placed hand into Scrooge’s; permitting his escorting her up the path to his door.

“We can send to a cookhouse for the preparations,” he remarked aside to Belle. “Although, we’ll need first to have something to send…”

She nodded; turned to run ahead inside, calling out as she went.

“Miss Jenny! Have you seen Marty today? Is he hanging about in the back alley?”

Scrooge addressed the children, head pivoting between them.

“Peter, there is something I must show you upstairs, when we have a moment. And Ricky, by all means, I would love to hear about what you’ve been reading. I’ve been doing a touch of reading myself. And Charlotte, dear Charlotte – you must tell me _everything_ that happened. Don’t spare any detail. I’m sure there’s much that had to be left from your letters. Oh, but Mathilde – we simply cannot forget about your picture. I am _all_ excitement to see it!”

The pleasure he’d gained from letters was but a fraction, of what he gleaned from them in person; to have them under his roof. He hung on every word, their every exhalation.

Fred’s laughter rung merrily through the rooms. Peter was so beside himself over the castle and cannons, he was too happy to share the glory of them with Ricky and Charlotte.

Emilia was divested of hat, travelling coat, gloves; attended to by Jenny, plying her first with ice water then, when that settled, a strong cup of tea and some simple biscuits. The timid girl then wisely gave her space - seated in the coolest parlor; after the harrows of a long journey cramped in with her husband and younger son, left to quiet organization of her thoughts.

Jenny had plenty else to keep occupied; as she and Belle busied how to arrange the table, produce what was needed.

After input from their employer, the assistant shooed him back to his guests - implying though well-meant, he was also underfoot.

This was all right, for he’d tales of four children and one man to listen to; obligation he was pleased mightily to have.

He was attentive to each, even as they interrupted and contradicted one another; until the bulk of their energy was out and they began turning to other amusements.

Peter insisted they couldn’t so much as open the box, concerning his new model; that honor was reserved for his great-uncle. They’d be building it together - he’d _promised_.

He consoled his two siblings by taking them outside for a trial run of miniature cannonade. Fred hurried after, as much to oversee as perhaps play a bit himself.

Scrooge took Mathilde aside, carefully unrolling the picture she’d brought him.

It was the ocean at the shoreline, viewed from angle slightly above. Pale expanse of sand below came to meet it, dotted with pebbles and shells.

Overhead, in black outline, a few birds soared. Waves crested against gleam of sunshine, brilliant light blues blending into darker waters; curling, arcing with foam.

“There was a little hill not far from our cottage. I set up my easel for an hour or two there every afternoon. Sometimes in the mornings, if I could get away from breakfast early enough - I wanted to see it when the light was brightest. I used pastels. I had to be very careful not to get them on my dress - nearly all of my seaside clothes are white or pale, and Mother would have been so cross.”

“Oh - oh, Mathilde…” her great-uncle stammered, gazing at it. “I wish that I knew more about art, so I might have appropriate words to better express my appreciation. You’ve done so...so well; this doesn’t even look like a picture. It looks almost like a small window onto a real moment.”

“I’m pleased you like it so much.”

Prim with shyness under the praise; knowing well he wouldn’t gush like this merely out of fondness for her.

“I _did_ enjoy making it, though it was a lot of effort also. I’m glad it turned out well - that you think so. I was pleased myself, I thought; but after looking at it for so long you can never be certain anymore.”

“You’ve every right to be pleased, and proud. You are both talented and accomplished - this is perfect. I shall have it framed.” He hesitated. “Although, there is one thing which might be missing…”

“What could that be, Uncle Ebenezer?”

He looked to her, with a smile. “It isn’t signed by the artist.”

With rummaging they produced a charcoal pencil. Mathilde affixed her signature in the bottom corner, precise and confident in her letters.

Shortly Fred and his other offspring came back in; cradling their toys, trailing the faint scent of gunpowder.

“We’ve met some of your neighbors,” Fred informed his uncle. “They seem very nice; and inquisitive.”

“Oh…” He hadn’t thought to possibility of disturbing an otherwise quiet street. “Perhaps I shall have to make the rounds later in the week with apologies…”

He glanced out the window, relieved to find no one at the fence glaring.

Marty trotted past to the back door, carrying a plucked and dressed fowl that was big as he was.

“It seems that dinner is coming along,” Scrooge inferred.

Belle reemerged, sitting down to chat with Fred on the people he’d seen about during their holiday - he’d no shortage of animated observations into their habit and dress.

Erasmus had been drawn out by commotion, permitting Mathilde and Ricky to play with him on the carpet.

Charlotte curled up on the sofa, drifting off into a nap.

Peter was making a production of reading his great-uncle’s newspaper; evidently having reached the stage where he cared to demonstrate he was becoming a young man with constant play-acting.

Not wishing to intrude on anyone, Scrooge went to see how Emilia did.

“Are you feeling any better, I hope?”

“Yes, I am in fact.” She did look less tense; less harried. “There will still be much to do of course. However for the moment, I am doing level best not to think on it.”

She cast him aside look, almost shrewd, as he settled into the chair beside her.

“You must have felt incredibly deprived of our company, to want so much at having us now.”

“I have missed seeing you - particularly the children. Though, it is high time I had you over at my own residence - this is as good an opportunity as any. And...I _have_ been keeping busy during your absence from London, I’ll have it known.”

“Yes, I am aware! You’ve been involving yourself with many good works, indeed. Your name has appeared in several letters I’ve had from my acquaintances.”

“Oh, dear...well, I will not ask you what was said. I only hope their impressions weren’t too negative.”

“On the contrary, their impressions have been altogether favorable. You have been seen as considerate and productive.”

“Hmph.” Mollified by this, unexpectedly; he quipped, “I suppose that was cause for a great deal of surprise?”

“ _That_ I could not comment on; in there, it would be inappropriate to repeat what was confided in me.”

Reasonable enough, far as decorum was concerned; though as responses went it was also rather telling.

He cleared his throat quietly, changing the subject.

“Emilia, I don’t mean to take advantage of your experience - but I wondered, if you might not be able to advise me with a matter.”

“What would that be?”

He glanced to the left - down the passage could just be seen where Jenny industriously polished the flatware.

“My maid, I’ve found, has never been taught to read. Not an altogether uncommon flaw; nor one too difficult to rectify. However, it seems she does not have any interest in learning.”

“Oh, I see. You would be willing to assist, if she were?”

“She is a clever and good-tempered girl. I know she’d be more than capable. I’ve no patience for instruction; but I would gladly provide time and funds necessary to attend lessons.”

He paused, frowning.

“I suppose if I _commanded_ her…but that isn’t what I want. I only wish I were able to put it in terms she could understand - that she could view it as something desirable. Despite her believing otherwise, I _do_ feel it would be useful to her.”

“She does appear hardworking, and well-mannered in her expressions,” Emilia noted. “I could have a private word with her. As an educated woman, I may be able to frame it more appealingly.”

“Oh...well; that could be something, yes. But Emilia,” he hesitated, “I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice she is a…reticent creature. I only hope you’d be careful not to frighten her.”

“Why, Uncle Scrooge,” her manner so airy it was consequently meaningful; “are you implying that you find me at all intimidating?”

He could not answer.

He mumbled an excuse, he had to look for a bottle of wine to pair with supper; and quickly left.

The dinner ended up being served as an early meal - very unfashionable these days, he knew. The first course merely cheese and fruit; the second obviously the distinct split-pea concoction from London’s ham-and-soup carts. There was no prepared dessert - they had to send out for some tarts; and because he never drank it there were no supplies for coffee.

But his guests were hungry, therefore happy to eat anything. His table well-set given the circumstances - the plates and cloth very clean.

The children gave no notices. Fred’s only comment was surprise when Belle ate in the kitchen with Jenny instead of joining them. The one who might be inclined to judgment was Emilia; and if she passed any she hid it well from him.

“I suppose you are back to work straightaway, Fred?” he questioned over dinner.

“Yes, as if without pause - and I’m not the only one.” Glance to his wife. “With the Season soon to start, we’ll be having our first party in - two weeks, yes?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “A Friday evening’s entertainment. A music performance; the proceeds the attendees feel like donating are to benefit a widows and orphans fund.”

“You’re already throwing a party, so soon after returning from your holiday? Why, surely it’d take the entire fortnight to have everything prepared!”

“Not at all. The other ladies have started in my absence.” Emilia didn’t bat an eye. “They’ve kept me abreast of their process. Of course, there’s no competing with the glamour of larger events for the wealthy. This is an intimate gathering - the singers are of slight renown, and have volunteered their time.”

“It’s to be numbers from various operas,” Fred said with helpful cheer. “Do _you_ like opera, Uncle?”

“I...I’ve never attended,” he faltered, concerned where this was heading. “I confess I have little opinion on music.”

“The guest list is not yet finalized,” Emilia observed. “If you wished to join, we could add you.”

“Oh no, I...I will send a donation, of course; it sounds another worthy cause, as indeed all those you support are - but I’m sure I could add very little of merit otherwise, to your party.”

“You know how big our house is,” Fred prodded good-naturedly; “there won’t be _that_ many people. You’ll hardly have to talk to anyone!”

“I can only feel the intent of these remarks is to make a jest with me; but nevermind.” He frowned. “Regardless of the level to your sincerity, Fred: I fear you do me too much credit. Why, you have known me for years to be anything but a...social creature.”

“But Uncle,” his nephew protested with surprise; “you’ve become so good at it lately! See here...” He gestured around the table. “An impromptu family dinner - welcomed with such felicity, and arranged with such care and ease.”

Scrooge’s frown became uncertain.

“You should join us, Uncle Ebenezer,” Peter put in grandly. “It’d be rude _not_ to accept.”

“Don’t pressure him, Peter; he’s not under any obligation,” his mother rebuked.

“And you shouldn’t make it sound as if we’re going to be there,” added Ricky, more hotly. “You know that we won’t. Not that there’d be any enjoyment at some stuffy party for adults, anyhow.”

“There's different types of fun at different ages, Ricky,” his father offered.

“Is that _really_ fun somehow? Listening to a bunch of strangers take turns trying to sing?”

“Recitals, professional and unprofessional, aren’t that uncommon...there might well be some you are invited to, when you’re a few years older,” Scrooge explained; his thoughts were not on what he said.

He was contemplating Fred’s example, his insistence.

It was true, he recognized; he found himself more at ease in social situations now - in rare cases, he even sought them out.

But - his notions warred within - there was always a _reason._ It was never purely for the event. And there was never something so much a production, so draining, as an outright party of the type he was now being cajoled toward.

He had _never_ liked those. He’d avoided them with apprehension and loathing.

It’d been years since he tried, true. He doubted that parties would be the slightest bit different.

But what of himself?

Could he...be that sort of person now, who did enjoy such things? Who could handle them better, perhaps even _well?_

“I...I suppose that I could come, if you do not think I’d be in anyone’s way,” he said gradually; dubious assent pronounced. “Not for my own sake, but for yours. And of course, for the cause it favors.”

“Oh splendid, Uncle Ebenezer.” Beaming, Fred raised wineglass toward him in a toast. “We’ll be both pleased and fortunate to have you. Do you hear that, dearest? You _will_ send him a card, after all.”

“I did hear him, yes,” Emilia humored her husband - his uncle sat directly across from them both.

Directly across from them, and yet it might have been a faraway kingdom for all he suddenly recognized what was around him - what was happening. Yes, it gave him so much pleasure - but was this truly _his_ life?

In another room under the same roof, he knew, his maid and his assistant were relaxing best they could. Two employees able to find their ease within his home, as an expectation. And meanwhile, here he sat, eating the same dishes – with such _company_.

His nephew was animatedly telling the youngest daughter a joke, making her giggle. His niece-by-marriage watched aside, fondly. The eldest son and eldest daughter were quarreling, pulling faces out of their mother’s line of sight. The youngest son was loudly relating a story, neither noticing or caring he didn’t have anyone’s particular attention.

And like the rock around which the waves crashed and rolled, there he was – a part of it. Belonging as much as the rest.

Ebenezer Scrooge sat there, in his warmly furnished dining room, surrounded by cheer and company of the dear relatives he shared a meal with; benumbed by his own confused happiness, as he listened to them laugh and plan.


	17. Strictly in a Business

_The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here._

_He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view._

_"How are you?" said one._

_"How are you?" returned the other._

_"Well!" said the first. "Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey?"_

_"So I am told," returned the second. "Cold, isn't it?"_

_"Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, I suppose?"_

_"No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning!"_

_Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. - Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits_

In the days of August in the year 1844, the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, by the Grace of God etcetera, went into labor and was delivered successfully of her fourth child.

Being it was a public occasion, London provided the requisite trimmings of celebration.

Beautiful illuminations were hung outside buildings downtown. Burning gas lanterns, affixed with fabric screens in ingenious arrays of colors; initials and names and that important signifier of royalty, the crown, lit up for blocks. The displays lasted throughout the night; pedestrians might come for miles to stroll about, taking in the marvel.

Ebenezer Scrooge did not go, himself. He’d already gone to bed. Spectacle not intriguing enough; not worth interruption to his rest.

He’d reports the next day, and the weeks after - both in newspapers and from his acquaintances.

The consensus found the showing to have been in fact rather lackluster - pale comparison to that garnered at the Queen’s coronation; or even that of her predecessor. The illuminations mostly on government buildings, with little to no participation from private residences or any clubs.

Certainly, it was nothing compared to thirty years past: how they’d turned out for the victories of Wellington. Gas fixtures and paper lanterns intermingled in sprays, from every building with edifice enough to contribute; the jubilance of the City emblazoned into the night with such enthusiasm and pride as to be visible from ten miles or more away.

Only seven years ago, the country had been all eager optimism; the Crown having grown ever more stagnant, dissolute, a new ascension was greeted with affection and excitement.

Only twenty years or so before _that_ , there’d been panic and grief; when the deaths of Princess Charlotte and her newborn son created the lack of a legitimate royal heir.

But now the royal family hardly caused a stir in the hearts, nor a flicker of interest. The Queen had birthed four healthy children, two of them sons; it was hardly worth comment anymore.

Perhaps something would make her noteworthy again - assuming her reign lasted that long. Four children in four years of marriage, as a pattern, carried not inconsiderable risk.

In any case, noting the shift, Scrooge wondered if this was what it was to grow old: watching what had once been daily experience, fade into being history.

But he kept such reflections private.

The illuminations for their new prince - Alfred Ernest Albert; the usual mouthful cacophony - became another subject of small talk, lingering through the coming weeks.

Whenever acquaintances met, first were exchanged observations about the weather; then they transitioned to making note of the birth; observing it was a good matter, jolly well done; then commenting about the illuminations --

_‘Did you go have a look? No? Oh, well...neither did I; seemed as if it might rain. Anyway I had to be up early the next morning. Heard it was a lovely show however. Quite impressive. Though not nearly so grand as the ones from two years ago, when the Prince of Wales was born; that’s what they say.’_

And on, and on. Scrooge was tolerating it better, if only for having more practice.

That month he’d a letter from a business acquaintance, desirous to dine with him. A surprise, for most business acquaintances had cut him off - or were never regular enough in their attentions that now, he couldn’t tell the difference.

Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual; though not in direct partnership with them, this particular fellow had been in habit of catching up with Scrooge and Marley once or twice a financial year. Jacob always surmised the man wanted any excuse to go down to Greenwich for a good fish dinner.

Jacob had likely been right; for Greenwich was where Scrooge was directed upon accepting.

Taking a steamer south on the river was a penchant for men of business, holding many a meeting over luncheon there. Scrooge however found every excuse; skipping such gatherings, insisting they be held closer to home. He balked at the unnecessary luxury, the unnecessary travel; though there was another reason besides sheer frugality.

For even a short trip, he loathed going by water - never truly comfortable with feet not resting above something solid. An unfortunate trait for a Londoner, when shortest way from one end to another was still to hop on a barge.

No matter. He’d take his long walks, or pay extra for a carriage.

They were building more bridges across the river every year. The Thames tunnel opened last spring, though he’d wait another year or two without collapse before he felt capable of trusting it.

His faith however he _could_ put in another recent invention - as five years previous, the railway opened a Greenwich station.

Paying his fare, he boarded the train, finding the ride to be of preferable efficiency. He’d a bit of dispute with the conductor: he wanted to keep his ticket as souvenir, thinking Marty might like it.

He was unsurprised upon arriving to find Lytton Chumbley already seated and awaiting him.

The man was highly punctual when it came to his meals.

“Scrooge; there you are - happy that you made it! So good of you to come!”

“Not at all, Chumbley - my gratitude to you for inviting me.”

“Sit down man, sit down - you’re looking well! But it's rather nice weather we’re having for this time of year, eh?”

Chumbley’s money was in international shipping - his father had been a dockhand, his grandfather an impoverished country squire. His remarks on the weather lingered into further analysis; then his comments on the royal family lingered into opinion and theorizing. As always, he’d affection for a little _too_ much of everything; persistently hanging just shy of boorish.

He was also as thoroughly, unapologetically crooked in his business as his manner was otherwise laidback and convivial. Chumbley held no grudges toward his enemies; little sentiment for his friends.

Scrooge was trying not to be a _needlessly_ suspicious man. If Chumbley talked emptily, well, it was as much as he’d had with many a businessman over the years.

A nod at crossing paths; the occasional drink or lunch. It was simply the profession - an awareness of one another. Curious, polite, not a drop of caring.

Scrooge had even less of these connections to start with, and now they thought he’d gone mad; stayed away as if it were catching.

If only; Scrooge would have told them himself, _conscience_ was not so easily transmitted.

But if Chumbley was being his usual offhand self, Scrooge endured. He wasn’t about to drift into wickedness from small-talk. In any case...he found he missed talking on the intricacies of trade and finances.

If he were to preserve connection from his old life, he could do worse than Chumbley. Scrooge found his rambling tolerable enough.

He was fastidious in personal habit - Scrooge always appreciated that. His thin hair was getting thinner, mustache hardly worth reference; yet neat and well-maintained. He’d a broad belly which appeared broader still for his preference in waistcoats - pale fabric, sometimes even white; fabric starched and maintained at crisp purity; one wondered what he paid his laundress.

Dining with him meant going where one ate well at a bargain; he made a point to be familiar with the best waiters, who kept the cleanest table linens.

They split a bottle of claret; Chumbley put away most of it while hardly showing sign. He tucked into jellied eels, salmon, buttered shrimps; Scrooge content with roasted herrings.

They spoke on this and that. He found it - as close to relaxing as he ever did; such meals, with such company.

“I say, have you had a chat with Van Hornton lately?”

“No, and I doubt I should any time soon. He’s taken legal action which is still pending against me.”

“Ah!” Swilling his claret, Chumbley hardly paused. “Well, his niece is getting married! I imagine he’s on hook to provide the dowry - his brothers remain poor enough.”

“Hmmph; of course. They never did recover from that land venture, did they?”

“No, no, not a drop. Bad luck for them, the chaps! Can’t mock them too heartily, mind - it’s getting easier to take such missteps. The landscape’s changing, rapidly, by the year; by the _day_ it feels at times - too much to predict. I have to say, you may have picked a good time to retire.”

Scrooge sounded agreement, sipping his wine; watching the other askance, wary.

“A good time to retire, indeed,” Chumbley repeated. “Though heaven knew nobody ever thought that you _would!_ ” He peered at his companion. “I must say though, that retirement seems to agree with you, Old Scrooge! You’ve never looked fitter in all the years I’ve known you.”

“Thank you,” he responded shortly.

“Now there’s no need to get testy - it was a compliment.” Chuckled; long accustomed to airing such things away. “One can never be too careful, too attentive, with matters of health...none of us are getting any younger. My grandfather had the gout; so did two of my cousins - my physician says if I don’t exercise some caution I might run risk to go the same way.”

He took a relished spoonful of eels.

“But you - why, looking as fit as the proverbial fiddle. I imagine you feel as much, also? All that...time on your hands?”

Scrooge made noncommittal noise; gazing at the other stonily.

If one of them would be led into saying more than he meant, certainly it wasn’t going to be him.

“Whatever will a fellow like you do with his retirement - one has to wonder.” Chumbley’s smile faltered. “What plans were you making, what dreams were you dreaming, as you began thinking about closing up shop? Or...was there something else on your mind? Some...other reason, that you decided?”

When Scrooge persisted in saying nothing, Chumbley gave up on remaining pretense.

“You _are_ entirely healthy - aren’t you? You aren’t...there isn’t anything _amiss_ , perhaps?”

Scrooge dropped napkin onto the table, punctuating his frustration.

“How I do wish that people would stop inquiring directly to my face whether or not I am _dying_.”

“Well I think that you can’t blame anyone for wondering,” Chumbley said, defensive. “And we have all been wondering. You altered so much, so swiftly…”

Scrooge looked away; shaking head in short-tempered distaste.

“There isn’t anything, really -- spot of cancer, perhaps? It’s only; you see, I’ve got five quid riding on it with Hershel Abrahamson.”

“Then you had better pay him.” He drained his wineglass.

Without sign of shame, Chumbley sighed. “Oh, bother. Serves me for guessing, I suppose…”

“It is a wonder to hear that you all showed such interest in my death - such interest indeed.” Scrooge couldn’t restrain some nastiness. “I imagine once I was in the ground not a one of you would’ve thought on me so much as a moment after that - if your thoughts lingered for even that long.”

Chumbley appeared mildly hurt. “I would have come to your funeral.”

“You would have gone if lunch was provided,” Scrooge grumbled.

“Well I always felt like I was your most particular friend!” the other feebly protested. “We’ve always stopped to speak, whenever we’ve met!”

Scrooge said nothing, although his mouth thinned.

“I would have come to Marley’s funeral,” Chumbley continued, “only you were in such a hurry to put the man in the ground! I always go to the Continent in winter, you know; for the warmth. If there’d been any chance of hurrying back in time, I would have done it. But you scarcely announced the burial and what, it was only a matter of days?”

“I did not want the funeral to make much impression; I disliked enough it was so close to Christmas. Your protests to the contrary, I knew nobody would come - I was his sole mourner. And that has always been a particularly unpleasant time of year for me.”

The more Chumbley had spoken, however, the less he found the ability to maintain spite.

The man was feckless and abstract - still, did Scrooge deserve more? He’d shown no interest or sympathy to these acquaintances - he hadn’t the right to expect it in return.

If he could attempt to make better friends now, it wouldn’t be from these past remnants.

He exhaled quietly, not bothering to apologize. He doubted Chumbley was offended enough to expect one.

Sure enough, within half a moment the man was speaking again; as he reapplied himself to his meal.

“You _really_ might have picked a good time to retire; I do mean it. There’s something afoot, you know – things are starting to shift.”

“Oh?” Scrooge humored him; better than sound of chewing. “And how is that?”

“Well it’s the laws, I mean; attitudes aren’t what they used to be. Sympathies aren’t always where they once were. You’ve seen who they’ve started to sit in Parliament!”

“I have not – I give meager attention to such ultimately trivial matters. MPs decide who we are at war with; make many high-handed speeches – little they do has ever real impact upon the common man.”

“It’s different, different than it was only a few years ago. Policemen have begun arresting the sort of people that carry pocketbooks, you understand.”

“I shall believe that when I start to see it.”

“It’s the judges, as well. They’re less open to…financial input. Or maybe they’re being watched more closely; starting to care about appearance of impropriety, who’s to say. The result is the same.” He paused, sucking last meat from the tail of one of his shrimps. “Have you heard about the Linch brothers?”

“They’d a highly successful quarter, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course they have. They own all those lovely workshops set in Limehouse, and Poplar.”

“I do not know that I would use that word, first, in describing them.” He hadn’t seen the places but he’d heard stories; stories unfortunately reminiscent of his own history. “I would settle on…productive.”

“Possibly not for much longer.”

He gave a jaded scoff. “You don’t mean to say that they’re up on charges.”

“Well none can succeed in citing criminal misconduct against them, of course. No; there’s a _civil_ matter pending.”

“Civil?” he echoed, disbelieving.

“Indeed, indeed – rather the hefty one too, as I understand. They’ve organized an entire mob of families, spread out across multiple workshops; with allegations of neglect going back years!”

“Who could they have possibly found to represent them? These people have no money; if they did, they wouldn’t be scraping for the Linch brothers to begin with.”

“Some up-and-comer – a barrister who agreed to take them at a discount. Substantial one, it’d have to be. Fellow by the name of…oh, what was it again? Postlethwaite.”

“This is first I’ve ever heard that name.”

“Mine as well – but I’ve a feeling this won’t be the last. Seems to have a real reformist zeal. Might well have an eye on a political run, in the future.”

“He’ll have to win a few cases, first.”

“Oh, he’s no joke, from what I’ve heard. And he isn’t a fool, either. The briefs he’s written have made more than a few nervous. And he must know the system very well – submitted at just the right time. It’s too lucky otherwise: how else could he get the one judge guaranteed to be completely above a bribe?”

“Mawdsley?” he guessed

“Maidstone,” came the correction.

Scrooge slumped back, eyes wide in recognition of _that_ particular reputation.

“Terrible luck for the Linches, indeed,” he had to conclude.

“Yes, as I said! They’ve put on a bold face, but their partners are frantic. I was about to invest more into my docks down at the Isle of Dogs; now I’m reconsidering, if there’s some…reformist eye on that area. This Postlethwaite chap’s already set to turn into the phantom that’s got everybody looking over their shoulder.”

Chumbley carved into the last of his salmon.

“You truly did pick a good time to retire – not having to be worried about any of this. How fortunate that must feel! Tell me, Scrooge – what _are_ you occupying yourself with now, anyway?”

He smirked wryly, picking bones from his herring. “Oh…nothing you’d be interested in hearing about.”

“Well – I’ve heard rumors.”

“They might be true.”

“Ha!” Amused to the utmost - and nothing more. “ _That_ would certainly be a sight to see!”

“You could come with me, one day,” Scrooge said to him, daring; “see the projects I am involved in, for yourself. You could even participate.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so.” A faint grimace, flicking beneath his moustache. “Leave that to you...if it’s truly become a hobby you derive any pleasure from.” He reached to finish the wine. “The _stench_ from those parts of town play havoc on my digestion. I do best not to linger, anywhere near.”

Scrooge held in a sigh. “You never know - you should try doing something nice for another some time, without any intended gain. You may find that you enjoy it.”

Said quietly, without any real fervor.

He didn’t expect Chumbley to change. And; it was admittedly nothing to him, either way.

After lunch they bid each other good day, respectfully. The usual routine: Chumbley insisting they _must_ do it again soon and Scrooge absently promising to look at his calendar - neither supposing for an instant that the other at all put any sincerity into it.

When they turned to go separate ways, Scrooge paused. Watching as Lytton Chumbley made blithely for the pier, whistling to himself.

Spying a man of means soon half a dozen children in rags gathered around, palms cupped upward, with beseeching eyes.

The round businessman waved them off with his walking stick; without a glance at any of them.

Scrooge shook his head. Yet still, he could not muster feeling enough for condemnation.

When they clustered around him in turn, he gave each of the beggar children a penny.

On way to the train station he passed a little girl selling flowers from a basket, and he bought her smallest posy of violets.

Then at the station was a boy with three white mice that did tricks; of course Scrooge had to stop and watch, and ask a few questions, before offering a handsome fee for the show. Very nearly missing his return train, but that was all right.

On the ride back, he sunk into the half-awake contemplation brought on by a warm lunch and an uncertain experience.

But, he supposed he’d see Chumbley again; for another meal and diffident conversation, in a few months’ time.

Likely not until spring; it was getting cool again - very soon the man would be off to the Continent.

Scrooge had his own affairs to tend to, meanwhile.

He’d settled into productive, comfortable patterns. Every moment accounted for satisfactorily. With charity; with family; with pleasure.

And then later that very week of August, it came: the official ending to Scrooge and Marley.

Oh, the business was closed for months; on paper, memory of the partnership should’ve already begun gathering dust. But so long as the offices remained in his possession, that final curtain did not feel to have fallen - he couldn’t shake the sensation circumstances lingered in a kind of limbo. Anyone walking down the block, glancing at the address would still see that remnant; shuttered though it was.

Now however, the day arrived. He stood on the pavement outside, key in his pocket, watching silently as workmen carried out the furniture.

His files and books previously transferred to his residence, everything else had been sold.

Belle was keeping a sharp eye over objects loaded into waiting carts, extolling them to be careful - better not to have to revisit a settled-upon price if goods arrived damaged.

To Scrooge, her voice faded into the multitude of sounds forever present in this street. Sounds he’d long grown accustomed to, even when he despised them - very soon, he imagined, he would never hear them again. Not this particular convolution; this particular litany.

Would he ever tread this block again? Would he ever wish to?

This place - where avarice and apathy consumed so many years, and he’d willingly fed them, not so much for a gain as to avoid being called to do something else with the time.

He stood at the stone where had been carved the name of the partnership. It’d already been sanded away, though the framing still set - blank and ready to receive a replacement.

Hesitantly, he reached toward that conspicuously bare place.

Would he feel a trace of those heavy, bold letters still? How deep had they been carved?

Would this street always have a memory of him, no matter what was stripped away - or built over it?

Halfway he stopped, fingers curling into a loose fist as he lowered his arm. Changing his mind.

He gazed emptily at the stone, uncertain of himself.

Then he became aware Belle had approached him - turning, he found her holding a crate with tentative half-smile.

He glanced inside, but there was nothing in her arms besides the open crate. “What is this?”

“This is for what’s left at Mr. Marley’s desk.” Shifting a fraction, she offered it to him. “I thought that you might like to see to it yourself.”

It took a second to understand. Soon as he did, wordlessly he took the crate with a nod; went inside the office.

The matching desks stood in their place at the back, facing one another, chairs pushed in. Nearly everything else was gone. The expanse of space yawned around them.

Scrooge approached. Stopping before Marley’s desk he glanced across to his own.

He’d already taken everything, when they’d closed - the only thing remaining the familiar seat itself. What had been his place those many years. He gazed at a moment.

Then he set the small crate down on Marley’s -- on what had been, once, Jacob Marley’s desk.

He drew a breath in through his nose, before making himself reach for the scarf still on that chair.

He held it in his hand; folded it in half, gently; trailing fingertips down the woolen fibers.

This had been Jacob’s - this plain, common object belonged to a dear friend. He found he’d so many memories of seeing him wear it; that brought him reassurance.

And preposterous though it might be, it somehow seemed as if a small part of the man remained - by touching it, he felt a kind of warmth he could hold in his heart. Fleeting, but - unlike so many memories he’d once been dogged by, not at all painful.

Scrooge set the scarf inside the crate, carefully; purposefully.

Once that was done - the rest, it felt much easier.

Pulling out Marley’s chair, he sat, carefully arranging the tails of his jacket. Then he began stacking the things upon the desk’s surface, adding them into the crate. Pulling open the drawers one at a time, giving contents quick glance as he sifted through, before putting them within as well.

Marley had been attached to his odds and ends. But little clutter made it to his workspace - he knew how it exasperated his partner.

Much as Marley enjoyed purposefully exasperating him at times, in many others he was respectful of his preferences.

If Scrooge did not hurry, he did not linger over-long either. There was only one object to give him pause.

He opened middle left drawer and discovered, at the very bottom of a pile, a book with familiar title.

_‘Frankenstein: ou le Prométhée Moderne’_

He flipped to frontispiece; confirming in his hands was the 1821 Paris edition of the wildly popular novel.

A crook of a smirk found way to his mouth.

He’d forgotten; but now, looking back, he recalled Jacob like so many others had read that when it was published and fixated with such attention.

They were still at the Exchange then. Marley tried to either...scandalize, or titillate Scrooge by reading certain parts aloud to him while the other was trying to work; being the far better-travelled, he must’ve picked up this copy later, perhaps to test if his written French was fluent as it was spoken.

 _‘Mark my words, Ebenezer,’_ Marley had sworn, when he’d refused to listen or even pay real attention; dismissing it as lurid and over-sensationalized, as ever skeptical of that which was popular - _‘some day, I think, you may just come around.’_

And now that he was reading novels again...although he hadn’t worked his way back to _Frankenstein_ , he _had_ been reading other books by the same author.

Ones he could admit he’d found to be rather good. Enough, in fact - he’d been considering it.

Scrooge shook his head.

“All right, Jacob; you win,” he said aloud - letting book fall with gentle thunk inside the crate with the rest. “Once again...you win.”

The desk soon was emptied - as empty as its mate across. Once more, they perfectly matched.

Carrying the crate against his chest Scrooge walked out of the building. He felt no need to look back.

On the street he’d a moment of puzzlement; he would’ve expected to find Belle waiting, but at first didn’t see her anywhere.

He glanced about, finally spotted her standing beside the furniture carts.

Bent slightly forward she was looking through an opened trunk, brow furrowed in show of deep consideration as she examined the contents within - which he knew perfectly to be worthless.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Pretending to look busy,” she said without pause.

He frowned - and then at once, he realized and understood.

“Where is he?”

“Across the street; end of the block, right at the corner.” She had no betraying expression in her face.

Scrooge looked where she indicated.

He caught briefest glance of a man disappearing down the alley - skinny, with lank brown hair under a flat cap, a short jacket and, presumably, a scar beneath one eye.

“Still at it, after all,” he commented in a murmur. “Whoever’s employing him must be paying him well.”

She was shaking her head - frowning sincerely now.

“What’s wrong, Miss Belle?”

“Oh well, it’s only...it bothers me; truly it does,” she heatedly confessed. “I can’t believe you had to tell me about that man who’s been following you all this time!”

“Why, I thought you had a right to know - though I would have reconsidered, had I known it would upset you in this way.”

Belle was the only person he _had_ told - he’d not mentioned it to Fred or Emilia, even. He didn’t want to worry or frighten anyone unnecessarily.

He’d certainly said nothing to Jenny; goodness knew, she might perish on the spot.

“It isn’t that part which upsets me.” Belle shook her head again, with a huff. “About all my life, practically, I’ve been keeping a watchful eye about me. Learned to spot a suspicious type, someone paying too much attention, at a glance.” She gestured, frustrated. “I can’t believe I missed noticing him! That’s exactly the sort of thing I should’ve caught from miles away.”

“Oh, is that it.” He tried a reassuring smile. “Well I don’t fault you - it’s _me_ he’s been following, after all. You’d not have seen him so frequently; I don’t find it that surprising he escaped your attention.”

Her response was a wordless sound - a deep exhale of exasperation, hands on her hips. Clearly, she wasn’t remotely mollified.

He didn’t know what else to say. Though he discovered this uncharacteristically impatient reaction born out of injured pride from her to be...strangely endearing.

“Enough of that, for now.” Belle spoke again, freeing him from his bemusement. “Mr. Ebenezer - it’s not easy for me to say, you know: but you’re certain you don’t want to at least report it to the police force? Or if not them, then...somebody, with some authority?”

“Yes, I am quite sure. I don’t believe this individual intends to do me any harm. He’s simply trying to _vex_ me. Or, to be accurate: whoever he is working for is trying to do so.”

“He _is_ spying on you,” Belle stressed.

He shook head sternly, shrugging slight. “I will _not_ let this dictate the actions of my life. I simply refuse.”

“Sometimes, you know, I’m not sure if you might actually be the most reckless man I’ve ever met...or the most admirable.”

“Well, normally I would argue against the first - but I’m certainly not the second.” He ducked his head, absently. “So there, I suppose, is your answer.”

A little laugh from Belle. “Well you certainly are one of the most confident.”

“That I will own. I do try to think rationally, and put stock by my own decisions. I’ve never been one to jump at shadows.” He said wryly, “With some minor exception...I put no faith in superstition.”

“Yes, I’ve known that for quite some time. You do own a white cat, after all.”

“I don’t follow. What does that have to do with it?”

“Why, have you never heard?” she remarked. “They’re not always popular. People say it’s bad luck to see one at night; and that they might have something to do with ghosts.”

He blinked. And then, it was his turn to laugh quietly.

“You know, I had forgotten all about that. But yes - some people _do_ believe that. Don’t they.”

When the last cart was loaded and sent on its way, Scrooge locked the door to what’d been his office. And then he handed the key over to the space’s new owner.

He took the crate of belongings home, putting it away in storage.

Though after setting it down, he hesitated. Reaching within he retrieved the scarf. Brought it with him, to a room on his second floor.

Here, on a high and sizable table, was the model castle. Peter and his great-uncle had taken entire afternoon removing it from its packaging; spreading out the pieces, taking stock of them with strictest care.

Peter would have put it together in one glorious rush, but his relative counseled patience. It would be assurance on a thing done right, he stated, and taking time on a thing worth doing was only avenue to greater enjoyment.

After deliberation, Peter had yielded to the wisdom of an elder. Though he’d insisted they make an appointment at least once a week for them to put in some time on it, so long as he remained in town.

The table with its grand work took about half the room. On the carpet covering the floor of the other half was a wooden horse Ricky had left behind. By window overlooking the front walk, Mathilde had set up her easel - she was practicing sketching figures from life, observing those outdoors.

On a shelf was one of Charlotte’s picture books, and a few of her own drawings.

Not entirely sure why he did what he did, yet feeling it was right, Scrooge left the scarf folded on end of the shelf. Where none might notice it, but he could easily glance at it whenever he was in this room with the visiting children.

“There you are, Jacob,” he murmured. “They are a lively bunch, but I am certain you will enjoy them.”

Alas there was no time this week to be enlightened by the company of his grand-nieces and nephews.

Instead he’d an appointment with their parents - and a houseful of strangers.

A different man would’ve been excited. A different man might have felt refreshed by anticipation; a proper social engagement for the first time in decades. A different man would have bought new clothes; spent hours in front of the glass trying to look fresh and handsome.

Scrooge did make certain his suit was clean, and had his boots professionally polished. He got out his best shirt and his newest cravat. Though as he tied and straightened the latter, he tried not looking too much at his reflection - his face seemed wan, eyes holding the apprehension of a hunted animal.

He could do nothing to make himself like the look of his hair. After minutes of fussing, he gave up the matter as pointless.

He took a carriage, though the evening was neither wet nor cold; if he went on foot he could picture himself walking past the door a dozen times, trying to find courage to enter.

On the ride over he felt all nerves and uncertainty. And upon arrival, he realized Emilia was doing her best to make this a grand affair - for when they stopped, a hired porter opened the door to his carriage, escorting him with a lantern.

 _What am I doing,_ he thought desperately.

He could hear the muffled din of voices inside. Perhaps he’d tied his cravat too tight; it was abruptly harder to breathe.

_I do not wish to be here - I am not looking forward to this._

Some abstract part of him, he realized, hoped his feelings might change before this night. That his personal preferences might have undergone a metamorphosis. Clearly, they had not.

 _But, you promised,_ he was firm with himself.

To back out would give insult to his nephew and niece-by-marriage - and hadn’t he given them enough over the years?

There was no alternative. Resigning himself, he entered the party.

He made it past the inner foyer, to the first parlor, before sights and sounds overtook him; he froze. Staring about with the helplessness of a dreamer, who can’t but hope if they look long enough what they see might shift before their eyes.

His nephew’s home wasn’t small - a well-appointed space for a family with growing children, and assistance of two full-time staff to keep it clean and running smoothly.

But oh, he’d underestimated how many it could potentially hold. Everywhere he looked were people, so many - well-dressed; with sharp, judging inquisition in their faces as they peered around.

The months previous he’d spent so much time at this house; he thought he knew it well. Seen nearly all the rooms, passing many a cozy hour. Now he barely recognized anything.

He struggled to find the wainscoting, curtains and upholstery that would be so dear and familiar to him. All he could see were people standing, holding drinks, clustered together; crowding the air with their murmurs.

Hand fluttered near his chest. He counted first groupings of heads; needing that to steady before he broached a tallying of the individuals.

Though the gaslights were up, everything appeared dim - not so much romantic as disquieting. It was nearly nine o’clock. There were small dishes and desserts - towering puddings, and speared roast vegetables on trays - in an adjacent room. From appearances those who wished to nibble gathered there, not daring cross threshold by unspoken decorum.

In another room chairs were arranged, instruments at front, for when the music would begin; though none yet availed themselves of this seating.

Platters of drinks circled in and out. He didn’t dare reach for one.

Fred seemed to glide around a corner; weaving throughout without second look, beatific smile as he made for his uncle.

“Uncle! Good evening - how marvelous; here you are at last.”

“Indeed,” Scrooge fairly wheezed, though for the eager greeting he managed something of a smile in return. “My, this is...quite the attendance. It’s rather more than I’d thought.”

“Yes; it’s something, isn’t it?” Fred observed. “For such a pivotal turn in the Season, and only an intimate, homey gathering. Hopefully this will be enough to satisfy my wife’s expectations.”

That didn’t sound like sarcasm, and Scrooge was too afraid to inquire further if it was.

“Well…” tried avoiding an awkward pause; “it is all for a worthy cause.”

He reached towards his wallet.

“Oh, no Uncle.”

Fred rested hand on his, stilling him; lowering voice discretely. Though unoffended, it was clear by manner he saved him from committing a gaffe.

“The donations aren’t given until _after_ the performances. Gives everyone the opportunity to act the discerning critic: imagining they alter their amounts based upon the quality of the music,” he chuckled.

“Oh. I see,” replied Scrooge, in truth not understanding the slightest. “I’m sure this many wouldn’t have come if a poor performance was the anticipation, however?”

“Oh no, not at all - it promises to be a real treat,” Fred went breezily, as if unaware how he might contradict himself. “The musicians are volunteers, gathered from Emilia’s various ladies’ circles. But the singers themselves are professionals. Mostly they’ll be doing solos from various productions, though there are also planned some two or three duets. I think. I’d nothing to do with arrangement of the program. There’s some handmade booklets of a sort floating about, if you’d care to avail yourself…”

He gestured helpfully. There were indeed two-page pamphlets of fine writing paper, carefully hand-printed, and bound together with wide silken ribbon; arranged in baskets and being passed.

Fred gestured again, by the instruments. A crowd ringed around two individuals, perfectly ordinary save for their being handled with reverence.

The man was older, short; swarthy complexion, slick dark hair that might’ve been a wig. The woman was young, plain-faced, skinny.

“Our star attractions. The gentleman was a celebrated tenor in Russia before retiring a few years back. He’s apparently living off his reputation by touring through Europe giving private performances. The lady’s career, by contrast, has just begun; said to be on the rise - she’s set to have a role in a new opera opening in Paris in a few months. She’ll be playing a handmaiden to Mary, Queen of Scots. Why is it that the French have such a fondness for Scotland? The ‘Auld Alliance’, I suppose, lingering.”

“It is a wonder to me at times, Fred,” he remarked, bemused, “the assorted minutiae it is that you have a predilection for mentally collecting.”

His fondness for his nephew shone through, tempering the shortness of his observation; Fred only beamed.

“Well, it’s the minutiae of life that I must find keeps it the most interesting. You’re right; suppose I’m drawn to the details.”

“I imagine that it would aid you greatly at work.”

“Oh, it does and it doesn’t. Come, Uncle - shall I get you a drink; then we can go around and I’ll make introductions?”

“Oh, no; no,” he countered hurriedly. “There’s no need for any of that. I will go and find a seat for the performance, before the better ones are taken.”

“They won’t be starting for some time, there’s no point in sitting now. Everyone will be mingling and talking at least another hour.”

“Oh,” he said, wilting in uncertainty.

He stood there a moment, trying to keep from rubbing his hands. Though Fred showed some concern, his attention was drawn and divided by all that which happened around them.

“Emilia will be circling back this way soon, I’m sure. I should resume my own rounds - you’re certain you don’t wish to join me?”

Fred would be obligated to greet and spend some time chatting with everyone he knew.

The thought of having to make small talk with that many people was beyond appalling, to Scrooge.

“No, it’s fine - I’ll simply wait here, for chance to pay my compliments to your wife.” A thin, shaky smile.

His attempt at appeasing Fred worked. His nephew nodded, gave him a friendly pat on the arm; returning to social wanderings.

Scrooge tried to find a spot to stand in where he wouldn’t be obtrusive.

Gradually he scanned the rooms, seeing if there was a face he recognized - unsure if that was what he wanted. Society’s code dictated he shouldn’t speak to anyone until introduced by mutual acquaintance; though it’d be pathetic to sit alone and silent the entire party, his nerves might be glad of the isolation.

“Uncle Scrooge. You are looking well. I see you dressed up for the occasion.”

Under the best circumstance he could still be pinioned by his niece-by-marriage; under the _current_ circumstances he about pounced on a relatively safe harbor with relief.

“It was warranted, of course. And I see no chance of my outshining the attire of others here. A good evening to you, Emilia - you yourself are looking rather…”

He’d begun without facing her, turning as he continued. What he saw startled him so he trailed off without meaning to.

Emilia tilted head at him, expressionless. Her curls were precise as always; her gown was new.

The design was typical - the fabric was not. Thin but distinct vertical stripes of cream and maroon.

“O-oh,” Scrooge stammered; embarrassed how rudely his inadvertent pause could be taken. “Forgive me, I did not mean to...I admit that I never would have thought to see you in stripes.”

“You do not like stripes, Uncle Scrooge?” she asked mildly.

“I have no opinion whatsoever. But they are so very...new, and bright, as a fashion. I would not have pictured them as being aligned with your taste.”

“I confess they are not, entirely. But as you say, they are new fashion; as patterned fabrics become more easily obtained, their popularity rises as adornment.”

Absently, she pressed her skirts. “Though to embrace trends too quickly can make a bad impression as to one’s character, to ignore them altogether can be easily as detrimental.”

“I didn’t take you for one who cared for popularity with the fashionable,” he protested.

She fixed him with an almost stern, resolute look. “A gentleman may be as eccentric as he pleases, if he possesses determination when he has something to say. In society, for a woman it will always be different. Charm and intelligence will scarce be paid any attention; without some care to appearance, she will never be seen as respectable or worthy of time.”

“I suppose you are right,” he conceded. It never occurred before, how Emilia must exhaust herself to fit in just enough that her driven passion would be otherwise tolerated - that she would be listened to. “You _do_ look very well, in truth - my reaction was surprise, not aversion.”

“Of course not.” She slid hand against his arm, lightly steering him. “I know you keep early hours so certainly you’ve already had dinner. As to other refreshment, we’ve a few wines to choose from, and there is a fine brandy-”

“I shall wait until the music begins to have a drink; it wouldn’t do for me to start too early,” he insisted wanly.

“All right.” She surveyed her rooms discreetly. “Mrs. Parker is here with her two daughters, if you wish to begin with someone you have previously spoken to.”

“Oh, yes - yes that would be preferred,” he exhaled. “Thank you, Emilia.”

“Not at all. I shall point them out to you.”

The Parkers had obtained a small circle in a drawing room to themselves. The elder Miss Parker, who he’d met at luncheon, was sipping a glass of cordial water. Her mother was fussing over the dress of her sister; Scrooge lingered a space so as to not interrupt.

When he did greet the ladies he was recognized: they seemed politely pleased enough to see him. He exchanged the usual tittle-tattle with the mother, inquiries as to health and family, so forth.

When inevitably the subject of the street illuminations for the royal birth was reached, he stated he’d not seen them personally. Though yes, of course, he’d heard all about them.

The younger Miss Parker interjected that she’d wanted to go, but wasn’t allowed.

“Bethany, hush!” her mother scolded. “What have I told you about interrupting?”

Miss Bethany, to guess by appearance, was a few years older than Mathilde; by manner, not yet out in society.

Mrs. Parker explained her daughters were among those accompanying the singers that evening - Miss Bethany, she dithered, was said by many to be quite gifted at the pianoforte.

“And do you play that instrument also, Miss Parker?” he inquired.

She revealed in fact she played the harp. Scrooge remarked he’d thought that instrument as going out of style for young ladies - an observation that, by expression, wasn’t appreciated by her mother.

“It _is_ ,” agreed the younger Miss Parker. “But Mama insisted; it’s what _she_ learned, back when she was young.”

Mrs. Parker scowled, made terse excuse about checking on the instruments. She grabbed onto Miss Bethany and marched off, likely to give her second daughter a stern talking-to on how one was meant to behave in public.

Scrooge was left alone with the other Miss Parker. He asked her about what few things she’d been permitted to get a word in edgewise about, last time they’d been together.

Miss Parker, it turned out, had been so frustrated not having her thoughts listened to she’d changed interests entirely. Now she tried joining petitioners seeking pension for the widow of The Great Belzoni.

Scrooge had the late explorer’s book in his collection. He offered to send it to her, for the borrowing.

He didn’t dare ask if she’d had any further encounters with Filbert Broadbend, or if she’d been made to listen to more diatribe on his model boats.

Miss Parker wasn’t a lively creature, but she was dutiful. Not overtly solicitous to charm him; nor seemingly did she resent being left with his company. Their conversation neither fascinating, nor uncomfortable – if only the whole evening could pass this way! Mild talk of _slightly_ more than nothing, with an individual already just familiar enough. It would’ve pleased Scrooge best; if he would not have consequently looked back on the night with joy, it’d have been a good enough memory.

Alas it was not to be. Mrs. Parker returned, collecting her daughter; in the process she did her duty introducing him to other guests, one of her husband’s cousins and his wife.

And on, and on, it went. Introduced to someone new, there was exchange of small talk; then in divesting themselves of him he passed via introduction onto somebody else.

Whether each parting was because his partners sought escape from him or merely preferred to drift with thoughtless gaiety, it made no difference – it still never came quickly enough.

It didn’t matter each encounter was no longer than a few minutes. Each was a sharp pinprick, further souring the goodwill in his soul.

Despite it being a charity event, they weren’t here to discuss charity. Racing forms, society gossip, the banalities that’d given him such disdain of parties years ago. Nothing, he despaired, had changed.

He couldn’t be funny, or effortless. He didn’t know the right things to say; nothing he knew about was found to be interesting.

Willing interactions over sooner he spoke in mumbles, few words at a time. He was passed off as dull, rather than contemptuous – they missed hands compulsively clenched into fists, discomfort building to boiling point within his eyes.

A sprightlier nature would’ve found something likeable among the detritus. They’d have drawn out to some common ground, gotten by on cheery superficialities.

This was not Scrooge’s nature – he wouldn’t strain to take joy in another’s faulty character. He found nothing about _these_ that was pleasing. Every person he spoke to seemed to some degree arrogant; if they were not arrogant, they were foolish; if they were not foolish, they were shallow.

A viscount quietly expressed contempt that an earl, standing just out of hearing range, should hold himself so high and mighty; when he was entailed to a worthless estate, his son only stood to inherit a few thousand a year, and he could afford but a single carriage.

Meanwhile that very earl’s wife was confiding in sneering tones to another, she couldn’t believe that same viscount dared present himself as being equal to _her_ family – his title had been granted but five scant generations ago, rewarding an ancestor who’d found financial success as a _brewer_.

And for either of these individuals to be present, should be considered a _grand_ honor. Only auspices of charity made even a compromised peer deign to be under same roof as the accomplished middle-class.

Though of course, it was understood only barely fashionable peers would in London so early in the Season - truly stylish would be out of town another month at least, hunting grouse.

Scrooge felt bitter, to know these things. What purpose did they serve? More knowledge collected over years for obsessive need to catalogue value; the attempt to approximate and assign worth to such things as clout, and respectability.

The burning thirst for an escape nowhere to be found was thrumming tattoo against his temple.

He was trapped between a Lady Nettlebourne and a Sir Wattling. The pair hadn’t come together; they only knew _of_ one another, they were not friends - they’d merely somehow drifted to him at same time. Now he was mired in three-way-repartee.

The country baronet was decent enough, although presence of a monocle hinted at a man who rather despised the country. Bushy moustaches concealed his mouth, muffling voice while he spoke.

He was going on about patronage - Scrooge made out reference to the Royal Academy; realizing he meant he'd become patron to an artist.

“My grand-niece is an artist,” he grasped to contribute; “She’s rather gifted - currently, she is working on-”

“Oh yes, well and good; drawing lessons for a well-rounded lady,” Sir Wattling interjected, disinterested. “Though I don’t know even a most talented female could ever truly be considered an _artist_ ; particularly one who is very young.”

“Well; as a matter of fact, I must say-”

“Yes, I quite agree with that assessment.” Widow of an Esquire, Lady Nettlebourne was wizened with age. Mouth perpetual half-pout, drooping neck draped in diamonds. “For a woman to put such effort, into a hobby, that she could be considered _anything_ is rather vulgar.”

She peered. “Are you knowledgeable in the field of art, Mr. Scrooge?”

“I confess I know very little. But, I do feel that when I see something I truly like--”

He gave up; she was already speaking past him, to Sir Wattling.

She described at length a painting she’d purchased. Sir Wattling made suitably appreciative sounds.

Scrooge suspected she valued it as expensive work by a desired artist - she seemed to take little enjoyment in the appearance of the work itself.

“As I was saying, I’m afraid I’ve no personal expertise in art,” he cut back into the conversation tersely. “Now that I am retired I’ve attempted to become productive in my hobbies. I’ve been dabbling in many organizations these past months, for the welfare of the destitute. Does either of you have one which you’d like to recommend?”

“Oh...no, I couldn’t say.” Sir Wattling’s eyes rounded behind monocle, befuddled. “Of course I direct suitable funds set aside, quarterly. But as to sorting where it goes...I leave that to my secretary.”

“Is there anything so coarse as to be discussing sums and their usage?” Lady Nettlebourne complained peevishly. “I am more than fit to do my Christian duty, of course. But I find the poor as a whole too tedious to bear being around. Money is all they seem to ever talk about!”

The last frayed strain of Scrooge’s tolerance wore through.

Temper surged to the surface - a shadow of scowling contempt fell upon him, twisting expression, blackening his features.

“It is more a wonder the poor could ever bear such company as the well-off, as it is presented here tonight! Where their lives force them to preoccupation with practicalities...oh, with what things one chooses to focus instead, with the luxury of not having a single care or worry about survival.”

Sneering, voice rising, he expounded in unrelenting tone; punctuating here and there with ironic gestures.

“Here we are, brought together at an event organized for purpose of charity - and yet, that very subject is deemed too _boring_ to even discuss. Instead we’re to serve ourselves with _worthy fascinations_ as -- what types of furs are now in fashion; how much one has already lost this month to gambling; how much money one has spent on a painting they do not even understand enough to appreciate; who here outranks who! It is a disgrace, to all the opportunity squandered...am I truly to believe that _this_ is what I have been neglecting myself by missing out on?”

Growing short of breath, he paused. Glancing up as he did.

And found everyone within earshot staring. Faces wrought with astonishment, alarm, confusion - aghast distaste.

Anger forgotten he realized how he was going on. He went cold.

He could only gaze back helplessly. Wanting to stammer apology; unable to speak.

Among the crowd of those gawking he recognized, from different corners of the rooms, he’d caught the attentions of both Fred and Emilia.

The certainty of self-recrimination settled hard and fast. Months spent earning their trust - he had ruined everything.

“Ex-excuse me,” he pathetically gasped, turning to hide himself from sight.

The only place he could go was downstairs. A monstrous imposition - but he didn’t feel he could possibly make himself appear any worse; nothing was to be lost by it.

The kitchens were hot and dusty, the usual girl and the cook working as footmen swarmed around, retrieving trays. They looked at him when he rushed in, astonished; but his being there was so outlandish they were overwhelmed past any protest.

After a moment they went about their tasks, shooting occasional glances of fearful puzzlement.

He stood away from the fire, back to the room; shoulders hunched, hand pressed to his mouth. Something sick and foul in his throat threatening to come up - born out of mortification, of self-loathing, of deep unhappiness.

Eyes squeezed shut, breathing stiltedly through his nose. He’d wanted so much to do what was asked of him; to enjoy the things he was supposed to; to make a good impression.

But there was no changing this. He was not a social creature; he found no ease around strangers; and he could not enjoy this sort of party, no matter how well he tried.

He wasn’t comfortable - he wasn’t amused. He was apprehensive and exhausted. Everyone found such pleasure in these things but he simply wasn't having a good time.

 _Why must I be like this?_ _Why is it so hard for me, when to others it seems so easy?_

Why was he destined to be such a disappointment to everyone?

A movement behind storage bins revealed a pair of striped ears and bright eyes - Tiger, grown plump from being spoiled out of sight by servant and child alike, was watching this intruder; inquisitive.

The sight wasn’t enough to soothe him, though it did give him something else to look at for a time.

The door from upstairs opened - the distant sounds of the party drifted in. Then were drowned out by hurried footsteps. Scrooge was alarmed when he heard Fred’s voice.

“Uncle? Uncle Ebenezer?”

Quickly he turned away, shaking his head, making disjointed sounds of protest. His nephew tried getting him to face him. Scrooge attempted waving him off.

“No -- no, I -- leave me alone, please. F-forgive me, I never should have...I am s-so sorry.”

“ _Sorry?_ Why are you _sorry?_ ” Fred exclaimed. “Uncle...Uncle, please, look at me! Are you all right?”

He grasped Scrooge by the shoulders; forcing him to turn around; searching wide-eyed into his face.

“What just happened? It’s as if you almost had...some sort of fit, or…”

Fred trailed off, at loss for words to describe it.

“I made a scene,” Scrooge stated. His voice was quiet; eyes threatening to water with humiliation. “I know. I just...I couldn’t help myself, Fred. I tried, truly I did, but I...it was too much for me. Even now. It was -- this all is -- it’s simply too much.”

He broke gaze off, looking down. A nonsensical explanation - he’d none better to offer. Where even to begin? How could he put it into words?

Fred, unexpectedly, had a dawning look across his face.

“Oh... _Uncle_ ,” he went slowly. “All these years...why did you never say anything?”

“Say anything?” Scrooge repeated, blinking. “Say anything about what?”

“Why - that you’re _shy_ ,” Fred remarked, delicately as he could. He shook his head. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor, encouraging you to come out. I’m the one who should be sorry! But, for all those times you never wanted to dine with me on Christmas - here I thought I was making it appealing, emphasizing it’d be a lively occasion; but now I see, that was only driving you away.”

“Oh...no. No, Fred. Please don’t give me that excuse. I don’t deserve it. That wasn’t the reason I turned down your invitations - it _was_ the rudeness it appeared to be, simple as that.”

“But you don’t deny it,” Fred pointed out lightly. “That the reason you don’t go to parties, or never socialize with more than a small number of people…”

Pained, Scrooge briefly shut his eyes.

“No. You’re right. I don’t...it isn’t something I’ve ever been able to do. I can’t seem to manage it. I prefer the quiet; I prefer...familiarity, in a more intimate setting.”

He was and would always be a dreary and uninteresting individual.

The Spirits taught him compassion, understanding, humanity - they couldn’t make him a lively man-about-town. There was a limit to miracles.

He swallowed thinly, forcing himself to open eyes and lift his chin again.

There was no disapproval or unhappiness in Fred’s face. He only smiled softly; laying a reassuring hand on his uncle’s shoulder, near his throat.

“You needn’t have forced yourself on anyone’s behalf. It means much that you even tried.”

“I don’t understand…”

He’d _failed_ ; he’d been asked to do something, and he’d let them down – hadn’t he?

Fred contemplated. “Wait here a moment, won’t you? I’ll go and-”

“Wait here? No,” he protested. “I should leave – before I make things any worse than I already-”

“Uncle, _please_.” Fred gave his shoulder a little squeeze; that firmness of character that arose unexpectedly when dealing with his children was present, and Scrooge found he too could broker no argument. “Stay. Wait. It’ll only be a moment.”

He left.

Unable to do much else Scrooge backed further into the corner, rubbing his hands.

The servants carried on, deciding to ignore him.

Again the door opened; again the drifting of sounds. Scrooge looked, squinting to see if Fred was returning.

But it was not he. Different tread – the play of light and shadows danced off rustling skirts done up in stripes.

“Oh good God – Emilia,” he whispered, gulping. Whatever emotional respite he’d gathered vanished.

At least he wasn’t alone in that. By time the lady of the household emerged clearly into view, the tension in the kitchens was palpable.

Considering how she could make grown men feel, one imagined the power over her servants.

He could only stare helplessly; her eyes-lidded, expression even and unreadable as she looked back.

After a moment she addressed without turning her head, “Will someone please get an ice-water for our uncle?”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” The girl bobbed in nervous acquiescence, moving like a fluttering bird.

Still _“our uncle”,_ he realized. This gave him strength to speak.

“Emilia, I…I don’t know what Fred must have told you. It doesn’t matter-”

“Of course not,” she cut in smoothly. “An explanation was hardly necessary. I know what a case of anxious nerves looks like.”

Sarah approached, handing a glass to her; she passed it to him, he took it without thinking.

“I only wish we could’ve known beforehand, or nobody would have pressured you into being added to the guestlist. This inconvenience could have been avoided, for your sake. Oh well; nothing for it, now.”

She spoke with such brisk airiness, it didn’t sound like sympathy.

But knowing her manner, it also didn’t seem as if she was blaming him.

Holding the glass of ice-water in both hands he took a deep drink, head still spinning.

“Thank you for…for having such patience with me. I feel as if I’ve ruined at least part of the evening.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’ve done no such thing.”

“But I’m afraid that I must have. I…I should be on my way. Before I somehow make things worse…oh; when I consider what your guests must think of me-”

He started to walk forward; she shifted place to bar his path, unflinching.

“You overestimate how interesting your behavior was,” she disagreed. “I am fully certain most have already forgotten. Not many could even hear what you were saying; they noticed something irregular, that was all. No doubt they thought you were having a heated argument; about politics, or cricket.”

“But it wasn’t anything even close to – no…no, I must leave. I _must_. I’m sorry for what I’ve done; when I think about going back there again…I couldn’t bear it…”

He was rambling, plaintive; feeling timid and a bit queasy.

“Please; let me be on my way. I shall go home. To sit by the fire, in solitude; where I belong.”

Emilia studied his face. After moment’s consideration, she extended hand to him.

“Come with me.”

“But I-”

“We aren’t going back to the party.” She insisted, repeating, “Come with me.”

What else could he do but take her hand.

Wordless they went swiftly back up the stairs. Emilia turned at the top, cutting a path through the halls and parlors without pause; it wouldn’t surprise him if none had chance to register their presence.

And then still holding his hand, trailing him assertively in her wake, she marched them up the stairs to the next floor.

To the family rooms.

In a bemused fugue he seemed to the float down a hall of patterned wallpaper and tintypes. Emilia pushed open a door, steered him within; depositing him in a chair.

“Wait here please, Uncle Scrooge.”

Hands on his knees he sat ramrod straight. It took a moment to even look around.

When he did, he beheld set of smaller chairs lined up; some slates, stacks of rulers and paper. A globe in the corner. A half-open box contained toys that’d been neatly put away.

At length he processed he was in what must have once been a nursery; had been converted into a schoolroom.

“Uncle Ebenezer?”

He turned head at the small, sleepy voice.

Emilia had returned, leading her younger daughter; wearing a nightdress, Charlotte rubbed eye with her free hand.

“I won’t wake the older children. Their rest cannot be interrupted; their lessons are far too important,” Emilia stated. “I think Charlotte will be able to sleep in a little tomorrow without losing much, however.”

Charlotte smiled, now she was aware enough to recognize him; registering him as a pleasant surprise.

“Uncle Ebenezer – what are you doing here? It’s so good to see you!”

She went to him, and he held out his arms at once for her hug.

“Lottie, please keep your great-uncle entertained for a while, will you?” Her voice softer than he’d ever heard, Emilia met his gaze. “I shall return later, Uncle Scrooge.”

He did not at first understand what she meant by that. But he found he didn’t care.

Poor Mathilde and Ricky, he thought vaguely – no doubt they’d be cross when they heard what they missed out on. Peter of course was back at school, but even he might be also; once he inevitably learned about it in a letter from home, or perhaps directly from his siblings.

It didn’t matter to Scrooge however, not in the moment. He wouldn’t be greedy. The company of this one delightful child was exactly what he needed.

And he still didn’t understand, perhaps, not fully – how what should’ve earned disapproval was instead making a strict mother break pattern to help him feel better. He didn’t understand why his mistake was being treated this way – maybe he would later. But he didn’t _need_ to understand, to feel grateful.

He passed a pleasant, calming half an hour with Charlotte. By now he was good enough at Cat’s Cradle he could actually play a bit back with her, though naturally she was still far better at it than him.

It wasn’t Emilia who ended up coming for him but Fred, who gently informed the music was about to commence.

Unthinkable as it’d have been short time before, after kissing Charlotte goodnight on her forehead, Scrooge permitted himself to be brought down to the other rooms to take a seat.

He was positioned comfortably near back of the assembly. Everyone’s attention was on the singers.

He glanced about warily, momentarily nervous; but none seemed to be looking at him. No one whispered, or stared.

Maybe he _had_ been overreacting, earlier – maybe it’d been the intensity of the moment, and he’d not caused as much a stir as he’d thought. Maybe the expressions on those faces had been magnified by his suspicions when it came to how others saw him.

Or perhaps, none of it mattered. If he could actually get enjoyment from the evening, he would; never mind about the thoughts of everyone else.

His opinion on opera remained at conclusion of the night indifferent, overall. But, he’d appreciated the entertainment – some of the pieces had been rather captivating, and the performers were undeniably talented.

As the assembly broke up, he went to Miss Parker and Miss Bethany to compliment them on their playing. They thanked him sweetly, as did their mother.

As the plate was passed, all semi-discreetly giving donations, his gaze by chance found where Lady Nettlebourne was seated.

When her eyes met his, she pointedly turned away, huffing in disgust.

By contrast, as everyone milled about preparing to make farewells, he was startled when Sir Wattling found him; to inquire with polite concern if he felt better.

The men exchanged cards, mildly promising to call on one another sometime before the winter.

Ebenezer Scrooge also took with him one of the hand-written programs – in appreciation of the handiwork the ladies had put into it, and also as a souvenir. He found he had learned something that night after all, even if it hadn’t been what was expected.


	18. Behind the Dusky Shroud

_Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover._

_But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. – Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits_

Ebenezer Scrooge was describable with a variety of appellations - his being a character tended toward leaving behind a hearty impression, each could be more...colorful, than the last.

The neutral, perhaps most agreed upon, were _habitual_ and _consistent_.

Rarely he strove for comfort; upon finding that which was acceptable, tolerable, he fixed to the path, never straying. He visited the same tailor; ordered from the same grocer.

His complaints about them offset - the canny observer knew lack of change was his form of testament to satisfaction with a service.

As with his physical person, he was sternly inclined to feel it nobody’s business but his own.

However as he aged from youth to man; doing business under his own name, the value of his labor a concern linked to possibility he might one day support a wife - there necessitated statement as to his health by some third party, for purposes of insurance.

So Scrooge found himself a regular physician.

He landed upon an old man, somberly respectable. Once a year visiting his patient at home, by appointment. Asking a series of questions; he stood with hands folded one over the other, shoulders slightly stooped. He’d solemnly pronounce his diagnosis - be it good or bad, it _was_ always solemn - occasionally writing a prescription in scrawling, reedy letters.

Scrooge gave clipped answers, never providing more information than what he was asked. The physician - being a Cambridge fellow, a gentleman - never laid a hand on to examine him, or indeed came closer than length of the sitting room.

Then in 1832, the aged gentleman-physician retired; to spend whatever years he’d left in the country. He introduced Scrooge to his godson; who was taking over his practice.

The new physician came too with accolades to recommend him. But he’d gone to Edinburgh, not Cambridge. A recent graduate, younger than Scrooge. He subscribed to the new, modern physic, unafraid to venture into the realm of the surgeon - having knowledge of anatomy, not only willing but insistent on having familiarity with the bodies of his patients to better understand their health.

Scrooge was of scientific mien, always interested in academic study - he knew as much about medical advancement as a layman could be expected. Begrudgingly, he knew there was factual superiority to this break from staid medicinal traditions.

However, being wise - being _rational_ \- about this particular change, wouldn’t compel him into _liking_ it.

Each year, as time came, Scrooge found reason to reschedule. Pushed it a week, then a fortnight; he would do this several times. Until some two or three months elapsed; at which point he finally relented.

The year following his miraculous Christmas Eve, Scrooge made more of his delays. He was after all truly busy. It wasn’t until the beginning of September he had his appointment.

Everything was usual enough. In total the examination lasted not more than half an hour. His pulse was taken, lungs tested; he was asked impertinent questions about his bowels.

He went to redress, as the physician packed his instruments.

“So, is there anything to report?” Not quite a demand, not quite a grumble; as he finished adjusting his shirt-cuffs. “Have you reached any...conclusion, any diagnosis?”

He couldn’t but feel _some_ resultant information would make this worthwhile.

To his surprise, the physician chuckled a bit. Scrooge turned to peer at him, frowning.

“Mr. Scrooge,” the now not-so-young man went, “when I first began seeing you, I would advise you each visit of ways in which you should attempt taking better care of yourself. Each time, my advice was clearly ignored. After a point I ceased in giving it. You might have noticed.”

“Well...no, I did not.”

“For the past five years, each time I left, I resigned myself to the possibility it was last I’d ever visit you. You understand?”

“You’d think it would have been appropriate to make _me_ aware of that, all things considered,” Scrooge replied with bemused irritation.

“It was nothing so distinct as actual condition. You get a sense, after time enough, for which patients are likelier than others -- for those with an attachment to life. But, in your case - that advice I stopped giving, you appear to at last have followed. Your color is good, you’re at a healthy weight for the first time, and I can tell you get regular amounts of exercise, outdoor lighting, and good nights of sleep.”

He shut his bag, concluding,

“Thus I leave today with every expectation of seeing you again same time next year. Although, if I may - perhaps we could be a bit better about keeping the date of the appointment?”

The physician retrieved his hat, bid farewell, and went down the stairs to let himself out.

Scrooge hadn’t presence of mind to respond further. His gaze drifted aside to follow the man’s exit only briefly.

He stood there, having been looking down at his own form since those observations, and he resumed doing so once he was alone.

He had not chosen another physician because he could not convince himself of any need – the man knew his work. Indeed, he was right: the body he examined today _had_ become markedly healthier.

Its owner hadn’t noticed. He lived in his skin daily, wouldn’t see gradual shifts; he paid little attention to his person besides.

But he took a book with him to bed every evening; his nightmares were rare and instead of getting out to pace he let Erasmus curl against his neck, oft soothing enough he drifted back. He no longer relied on his maid to wake him, but had grown to like having his morning tea and toast. He always broke for afternoon meal with his assistant. If not attending dinner at someone’s residence he went to what’d become his usual tavern. He walked rambling miles beyond the same blocks once tread as part of a limited daily routine.

Between projects, people and objects he’d garnered great deal of stimulation.

It hadn’t been planned. It’d not been intentional. But it had been effective.

Here he was, at an age when life was thought of as winding-down clock; health so improved that rather than losing years off his life, he might well be adding them.

Scrooge did not know what to make of it. Most would be thrilled at prospect of a longer lifespan – and with much to do it’d certainly be useful.

But he’d so long carried this notion of himself as a man old before his time, irrevocably fading; of looking to the approaching end just beyond the nearest hill not with hope nor fear but simply calm resignation; of being, as he put it once to a certain Spirit, “rather careless of himself”.

This different possibility unsettled and perplexed him.

In the end, he only shrugged, set it aside; ignored, as he returned to his routine.

He was in his study, considering a page as he wrote words out, measured slowly; when Jenny came to announce the arrival of his nephew.

“Fred! What a surprise. Yes, come in; come in of course…why, I didn’t even hear someone was at the door. I was…lost in my thoughts.”

“Ah, of course,” Fred chuckled.

He’d given hat and stick to the maid, although he’d kept his coat.

Though no longer fully intentional Scrooge’s private spaces remained somewhat inhospitable. He felt the cold more, but even with season changing was simply not in the habit of laying down a fire.

As month went on, worst of nippy autumn winds beginning to set in, at times his maid had been moved to timidly ask if she should light one. He typically responded with gruff, absentminded assent.

“Miss Jenny – if you wouldn’t mind throwing on a few lumps of coal…”

“Oh no that’s not necessary, Uncle. I was only stopping by. I wanted to drop off these – the numbers from Emilia, regarding the foundling hospital.”

“Oh! Thank you,” he reached to take the folded papers; “You hardly needed make a special trip only for these. It could have waited until I was at your house on Thursday.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I had some time on my hands, fancied I’d pay a quick visit.”

Though he was grinning and his manner was easy, his uncle tilted head at him with reproach.

“I am certain it’s well-meant, but you don’t need to keep checking on me,” he insisted; a kind of chastising sympathy. “It’s been weeks.”

“Perhaps, though I still feel…responsible.” Happy expression: earnest and sheepish. “I didn’t ask the right questions, even throughout the years; I brought you into that situation-”

Scrooge made dismissive waves of a hand. “Please, do stop apologizing to me.” His voice lowered. “Considering the history, I am hard-pressed to ever picture the situation in which _I_ am owed _your_ apology.”

“Oh now, don’t be silly.” Though Fred didn’t look up as he said it, subdued.

Scrooge cleared his throat. “As you can see, I’m perfectly recovered. As I have told you now, multiple times. A lesson has been learned about the…limits, to which I can push myself. Even for a worthy cause. That is all.”

Eyes on work spread across his desk he picked up his pencil; holding it, rather than writing.

“Yes, I can see.” Fred glanced about – not having been in the space since he aided with redecorating. “Oh – is that Mathilde’s picture you’ve got hanging up over here? What a lovely frame you’ve given it.”

“Ah, yes!” He looked at once. He’d put it on the wall directly opposite where he sat, beside the window, so he could see it constantly. “I took a few days to find one I trusted enough to handle it, the framing; but once done I set it up there straight away. The light suits it. Don’t you think? You can appreciate the detail, the skill with which she’s captured the ocean waves all the more.”

“You’ve given it a place of honor,” Fred commented.

“Well, why shouldn’t I?”

He made the remark unthinkingly. Fred didn’t respond with words. Instead, turning head he gazed at his uncle; smiling fondly.

“What is it?” Scrooge said after a moment, puzzled. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Why are you…smiling at me that way?”

Fred chortled softly. “Have you considered that I could simply be…happy to see you?”

Scrooge’s expression fell as he stared at him; startled.

These straightforward remarks still did leave him at a loss.

Fred cleared his throat, briefly looking again to the floor.

“Uncle. I know…you keep saying that you don’t like it when I apologize-”

“I did not say that,” he grumbled. “I said that there’s no _need_ to apologize.”

“Yes, but what you really mean is that you don’t like it when I do; that you don’t like hearing it. Isn’t it?” Fred insisted in that calm way of his.

Scrooge frowned, mumbled displeased sounds; fussed with papers, with his pencil. Not able to argue.

“Anyway,” Fred went on, “maybe it is true that I have nothing to apologize for. That it was all a misunderstanding. I do still feel…guilty, however. Even if there was nothing different I could have done.”

Scrooge frowned another way, gazing at his papers. Listening acutely to what his nephew was saying even if he didn’t quite follow.

“I think with the people we care for,” Fred continued, hesitantly, “there’s a part of us that wants to be able to…protect them. Keep all forms of harm away from them. Even if it’s from themselves sometimes.” He shook his head. “But, that isn’t always possible. That isn’t how life works, is it?”

There were many things – people – Scrooge could be thinking about, at those words.

He thought of them all, at the same time; a dreamy blur spinning hazily in his mind.

“No,” he said faintly, “it isn’t.”

“Anyway,” Fred said again - master of sailing past a strained or awkward beat of silence; “That’s just what I wanted to say. That’s all.”

“Yes. That is, I see. All right,” his uncle replied.

He glanced at his papers again.

Though it were soundless, he felt his heart beat a little more strongly. These - moments, with Fred; testaments to their improving relationship - tended to give him an excited, nervous feeling he wasn’t entirely certain he liked.

Fred did not seem to notice. Blessedly, he kept the conversation going. Scrooge let him; preferable to focusing on himself with too much awareness.

“My, it’s markedly quiet around here, today. Where’s Miss Belle?”

“Out. Running errands.” He pretended ignorance why Fred transitioned to her after mention of people one was inclined to care about. “Picking up a few things, for me.”

“What sort of things?” Fred asked with offhand nosiness.

“Nothing important - an assortment of required odds and ends. Blotting paper, tooth powder, goose down for a pillow...oh, I’m not going to repeat the list. Really I shouldn’t take advantage of her goodwill, but I do so dislike dealing with a crowded series of shopfronts; and she never does seem to mind.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t.” Fred had a significant smile.

“ _Anyway,_ ” his voice rose a fraction, “at least she has some assistance - Marty went with her.”

“Ah, your errand boy.”

“He is _an_ errand boy, he is not _my_ errand boy,” he corrected peevishly. “Yes, he does often hang about, to avail himself of my business. That’s hardly the same as...well; he isn’t under contract.”

As if that somehow settled things. Fred was pulling back on a grin; but he went along. Changing the subject obligingly once more.

“I will confess – there was a reason bringing me here today besides getting you those papers. If I might return, for a third and final time, to topic of apologies-”

 _“Fred.”_ He shot a fed-up glare; not mollified at all by the air of game bravado.

“Please, let me finish. You see, I was thinking I might make it up to you by way of…another invitation.” He raised a hand. “But this time it’d be to a _truly_ small gathering, I promise; very quiet, I doubt you’d be expected to speak much to anyone. And it’s for purposes that you might find highly interesting.”

He was intrigued despite himself - whatever could it be, Fred would think he’d find it more interesting than an imposition?

“Oh? And, what purposes are those?”

Fred beamed in anticipation. “A colleague through work invited me and my wife to join him at his aunt’s home…where she’ll be hosting a professional spiritualist.”

Scrooge went entirely still.

“Emilia declined for her own part, she’s no taste for the sort of thing. I thought that I could prevail upon you to take her place.” When there was no response at first, Fred tilted his head. “I think it could be amusing – don’t you? These seances are starting to catch on – before long, everyone might be having them. It’s a treat to get in on the ground floor, experience something new and unusual.”

“When you put it that way, I can understand why _you’d_ be interested.” Warily he found his voice. “But…but, Fred: whatever made you think of _me_ for this particular invitation?”

“Oh, well…” His nephew paused. “I might be mistaken, though I thought there was chance you’d already some interest in the subject. Or, something adjacent to it.”

“Interest in…in _spiritualism_?”

“You have made the comment on occasion. About life after death, and spirits.”

Evidently his tongue slipped on certain matters, more than he realized. He swallowed, awkward and dry.

“I am no proponent of any sort of new societal movement,” he went gingerly. “And, I’ve no interest in attending to the residence of a stranger to have a sermon made at me…”

“Oh no, it isn’t like that at all,” Fred reassured. “There’ll be no focus on the philosophical end. This is to be a gathering simply for enlightened entertainments. I promise.”

 _In other words, an evening for charlatans and trickery; no doubt,_ Scrooge determined.

Perhaps to many it was in good fun – or well-meant, but misguided, in cases of the truly inquisitive.

Such dabblings were not to his taste however. They never had been. They were even less so, now that he’d his experiences.

He should have politely turned down the invitation.

He could not explain why he didn’t.

Perhaps he wished to placate his nephew, demonstrate by action no hard feelings – since words hadn’t seemed to fully suffice.

It did appear an easily-managed sacrifice: no dinner, no conversation, merely an intimate gathering where he’d be part of an audience as another held the attention.

A rational considerate justification. Although perhaps not the entire story.

Perhaps, loathe as he was to admit, he was…curious.

Curious only in a certain manner, that was. He did not for an instant expect the evening to contain any _surprises_ ; anything impressive. However, as Fred noted, seances _were_ becoming increasingly popular.

Maybe for once he could stoop to see what the fuss was about.

If nothing else, it’d be privately amusing; for one night to hear spirits spoken of as if they were part of reality. He might even enjoy _that_ , a bit. No way to know until he tried, but he could see potential.

Certainly, it would be different – if only as part of a game.

He gave his assent in tones more begrudging than demonstrative of enthusiasm, though naturally that didn’t dishearten Fred.

Perhaps _he_ was merely satisfied for any sign of his anxious relative spending time outside his own residence.

Scrooge made notation in his calendar, though couldn’t bring himself to write the word “seance” – he recorded it as _‘private party; w. amusements’._

When Belle asked her usual friendly questions about his evening plans for the week, he was inscrutably vague until she took hint and dropped it.

The appointed night came; as did Fred in a carriage to collect his uncle.

The residence they arrived at was a house large as Scrooge’s. To pass time while waiting for other guests he made private estimates – address in Mayfair; presence of perfectly-matched footmen; the grade of furniture in two separate morning rooms _and_ a parlor. Assuming the young man whom Fred knew from work came from family money resplendent as his aunt’s, he was worth many, many pounds a year.

He watched as Fred and said young man greeted each other, and conversed warmly.

He’d once dismissed his nephew as man without much future. But whether he knew it or not, Fred’s gregarious character would be of great benefit through social connection to him and his children.

Well; even if he didn’t know, likely Emilia did. Doubtless she was equipped to press the advantage.

The attendants totaled their hostess, her son, two couples among her friends, her nephew and his wife, Fred and his uncle.

Then of course was the spiritualist.

He was introduced by name of Christopher Flourish. He was an American – spoke solemnly on having received training in mystic secrets of the Native Indian, _and_ having participated in prior spectral communications with several of his nation’s Founding Fathers.

He stood about same height as Scrooge, with honey-blond hair artfully coiffed. Suit resplendently tailored, silken cravat held with monogrammed stickpin.

He’d a polished smile, precise authoritative pronunciation, and a habit to emphasize speech with hand gestures; reminiscent in manner to those traipsing the boards of the stage.

He was accompanied by pair of assistants – Apolline and Violette. Neither spoke; merely smiled, nodding in response to his commands.

Scrooge would’ve presumed them another embellishment. Apolline fit the bill; slender, young, fair – but Violette was, frankly, rather dowdy. Clothes fine and neat as the others couldn’t disguise a stout frame, a round simple face; coloring and complexion that was unremarkable.

As evening’s event began, his eyes drifted to her intermittently. The only piece of the puzzle not quite fitting within the mold.

Perhaps it was cruel of him to mentally single her out that way. But such details always did draw his focus to vex him.

The rest, however, was too predictable. Proclaimed spiritualist explained the art and history of his “gift” – answering questions with the somberness of an expert, sidestepping no small amount of detail; saving his most charming glances for the ladies of the audience, who vaguely hid their appreciative titters.

Scrooge had seen it before in every mystic, fakeer, con artist salesman teeming on the street corners in London. The shine, the showmanship, the obfuscating charisma.

It was about what he’d expected prior to arrival – frustrated, now, how it was so very _obvious_. He’d anticipated these traits to lesser degree than what he witnessed; while the rest of the party drank it in with rapt admiration.

He was bored, more than anything. It’d been too optimistic of him to expect a new trend meant newer inventive forms of trickery.

The star attraction pronounced them ready to begin – the portents were auspicious, their group now comprised of the sacred number of thirteen; the same number as the Lord Savior and his apostles.

“Almost as if someone arranged for that,” Scrooge muttered; earning gentle elbowing from his nephew.

If Fred was no more gullible than his relative, he _was_ up for playing along. Forever major difference between them.

Flourish led way into room the lady of the house had set aside. Curtains drawn over the windows; in the center a round table ringed by armless chairs. Flourish remained standing, assistants taking places equidistant to him and each other. The only lighting, once all found seats, were candles on the table.

In the dimness Scrooge could make out the faces across from him, just barely.

“If all would please be seated, my friends,” Flourish instructed. “Now, take hands with those on either side of you – resting your wrists upon the table. No matter what happens, I pray you, do not let go. It is of vital importance we keep the circle intact, to maintain our connection to the spirit realm.”

Scrooge found himself holding hands with Fred, on his left – who was seated next to Violette. At Scrooge’s right was their hostess’ son; on _his_ right was the woman herself – by no coincidence, likely, directly across from their medium.

Flourish asked for silence as he closed his eyes.

From what Scrooge could make of the body language of the others, as they waited, they felt the room fill with tension; anticipating, uncertain what might happen.

For his part, he felt only the unease born of gradual impatience.

With the tenor of voice Flourish affected when he spoke at last – slow, heavy – it was to be supposed he’d entered state of trance.

“If there be any spirits that wish to communicate with us here this hour…come forward. Make yourself known!”

At first, nothing. The candles flickered slightly.

Then, from somewhere in the room – likely beneath the table, though difficult to tell; the sound echoed – came a loud rapping.

Several gasped, startled.

Scrooge restrained a sigh.

“Yes…I sense several presences near to us,” Flourish declared. “There is one…particularly strong. A man. An older man. He passed on from this mortal life some time ago. But his attachment remains strong.”

Scrooge began frowning for reason other than tedium.

“He died…five years ago? Ten? Yes; closer to ten. Perhaps…close to this very time of year. Yes; I believe so. I can see him, now…he has a fine set of whiskers. He wears glasses. His name begins with…a W?”

The hostess gave a gentle gasp.

“W-William?” she asked, breathless.

“Ah, yes…William,” Flourish intoned. “In life, he was your dear husband; William. He feels your heart reach out to him, even from beyond the veil. He has a message for you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Oh, oh yes! Yes; tell it to me, please!”

“He wants you to know that he’s proud of you, for how you have carried on in his absence. He knows it hasn’t been easy. But you must remain strong. Know you are not alone; for he is always there, watching over you from his place in the great beyond.”

“Oh, my William…dear William…”

In the candlelight her tears glistened.

Scrooge felt his face contorting in a scowl.

When Fred flinched, and he heard the man on his right mumble “I say!”, he realized he’d begun gripping his hands tight.

He tried to relax somewhat, though it was difficult; blood pounding near his temples.

Empty platitudes, easy guesses – the spiritualist telling the grief-stricken what they wanted to hear. Exploiting raw emotion; Scrooge knew what prey those in mourning could be.

This charlatan wasn’t only pretending to speak to the dead – he claimed to speak with loved ones, delivering false words in their name. Profiting off the dearness of memories of the departed.

Given the value Scrooge could put on true messages from those passed on, his stomach churned in rage.

He said nothing; hard as it was to keep words swallowed down. He might be the only skeptic present, he was forced to remind himself. What good would his protests avail?

The show continued. The medium went around the table, at random. At times the “spirits” communicated through him; other times they answered through rappings and knockings.

Nearly everyone present had friend or relative waiting patiently near in the afterlife – though Flourish didn’t end up speaking to all. Scrooge was grateful he and his nephew were among those skipped.

Inevitably, they concluded with rapping growing increasingly louder, violent – the medium entreated them to keep hands intact, preserving the circle, as he appeared to wrestle for control.

After sufficient dramatic period, he determined the restless spirits banished; strands of hair escaping across his forehead as he sagged in almost-swoon.

 _“Finally,”_ Scrooge said in undertone; patience extinguished as the medium’s alleged energies were.

The candles taken away, the gaslights relit. Guests began talking among themselves in excited tones.

They trailed out into the adjoining parlor – following the spiritualist, still acting faint; attended to with fawning concern by the hostess and two of the other ladies.

Fred tapped his shoulder, asking if he was all right; Scrooge gave him terse, distracted assurance.

Evidently convincing enough - they _had_ come to understand one another better, hadn’t they? Fred trusted himself to discern when that closed-off demeanor meant contentment; when it was perhaps best to leave him the space he asked. His uncle appreciated that.

Fred left him alone. Went to help himself to refreshments, and chat eagerly with his acquaintance about what they’d made of the whole affair.

It _was_ only a joke, to Fred. His uncle could not see a world in which he was ever made to feel otherwise.

Scrooge took a glass of wine. He couldn’t bear to stand there, listening to the hushed voices marveling about the power of the “spirits” – Flourish pretending humility in response to their praises.

The door to room they’d vacated was ajar. He went inside, leaning slightly on edge of the table as he nursed his drink.

The voices from next door had faded but did not abate entirely.

“Humbug,” he growled into his glass. “Utter humbug.”

He remained there sullenly some five or ten minutes.

Time was, he’d have felt the foolish deserving to be taken advantage of. Particularly through superstition. Or sentiment. A willingness to believe just anyone could reach out to the afterlife without proof, seemed a mixture of both.

 _He_ was not anyone, however. He couldn’t banish what he knew, even if it was only he who knew it. What others laughed at, dismissed as unimportant – he simply couldn’t get in on the “fun”. It made his stomach grow heavy, a taste of ash in his mouth.

_This is not a game._

The door creaked - he looked to discover one of the assistants standing there.

“Oh, beg your pardon, sir,” she said - it was Violette. The first he’d heard her voice - an American, like her employer. “I didn’t know anyone was back in here.”

“Yes, well; I wanted some quiet,” he informed her, not bothering to look again as she walked past.

“Yes...these gatherings produce all sorts of responses in those who attend.”

A dramatic contrast to whom she assisted - soft-spoken, not at all desirous of attention. Something languid, unpretentious about her manner and movements.

“Some people want to talk about it straight away, work through what they experienced. Others...want to be alone with their thoughts.”

His mouth twitched, between a sneer and a scowl.

Glancing over he saw her moving around the table. Brushing off drops of candle wax, straightening chairs. Tidying up for no real purpose.

She noticed him watching. “Don’t mind me.”

He gave short laugh; lofty, sardonic. He assumed she was waiting for him to leave.

He leaned more against the table, attempting in vain to get comfortable. He took another drink of wine.

“I suppose you wish to retrieve whatever device it is that’s been hidden beneath the table, to produce those knocking sounds.”

Violette smiled faintly.

“Oh no. There is no device. You don’t need something like that, if you know what you’re doing. We use our knees, mostly. Sometimes, we slip a hand free before anyone notices. It depends on the circumstance. You have to find an excuse to check the room first; to figure out the acoustics. Christopher usually says he wants to...walk the space, to sense the otherworldly vibrations.”

Scrooge stopped in act of raising his glass.

Turning toward her fully he blinked several times, bemused.

Finally he could only say, “...Are you supposed to be telling me that?”

“We’re professional entertainers.” She ducked her head, still with peaceable smile. “People come to us because they want a show; they want to be amazed. If they want to believe the messages we deliver are real, if they want to think they’ve experienced something miraculous, then of course we play along. Why ruin it for them?

“But you, sir -- Mr. Scrooge, was it? Well; obviously you didn’t think it was real. It’s not ruining the illusion. I have no reason to lie to you.”

He needed another moment; bowled over by this unabashed confession.

“One might infer you are in the _business_ of lying,” he testily retorted. “You advertise yourselves as capable of offering something to the grieving that you cannot provide.”

Violette’s lips pressed together. She didn’t rise to his response.

“They only want to hear those they love are at peace. It’s no more than anyone might tell them - although if they think it comes from a spirit, maybe they believe it more. We don’t seek out the bereaved - they come looking for us. For closure nothing else can provide. What’s the harm in that?”

“I imagine there’s even less harm to your pocketbooks.”

She shook her head. “Christopher only does these type of sessions. He never asks for more; to keep talking to a particular spirit. People _have_ asked. But that’s not the business we want to be in.”

“‘ _We’_ ,” he repeated, folding his arms. “You share a full partnership, then? By what I saw, he doesn’t appear to treat you as such.”

“I do more than one might realize.”

“Oh - such as?”

She gazed at him, casually blinking. She was naturally heavy-lidded, he noticed belatedly; it gave her almost a perpetually sleepy look.

Perhaps making her easier to underestimate; to overlook.

“Did you think it was chance he knew Mrs. Wilkinson’s late husband was named William?”

“It is a common enough name; it could have been a guess.”

“Yes, we could’ve guessed,” she agreed. “Sometimes we do. If Christopher had chosen to single you out, for example, he would have had to - since you were a last-minute addition, I had no opportunity to research you beforehand.”

Understanding her, his eyes widened a fraction.

“Your nephew though, I did have a chance,” she continued. “I saw your face though, at the beginning. I didn’t think it’d be a good idea. I signaled he should pass on the two of you.”

“Signal? I didn’t see you give any sort of signal. And, how could you have noticed my face; it was so dark…”

She did not reply. At her confident smile, his protests trailed off.

“It appears I am forced to concede - you and the other assistant do, perhaps, contribute something rather...useful. Three pairs of eyes, instead of one.”

“And everyone only looking at one of us.”

“Yes. Quite.” He set his glass down, pondering before he moved closer. “It seems you have your, er, _performance_ down expertly. I will give you this much...it was certainly a show.”

“Oh, this is nothing; you should see what we can do with more space.” She brushed the table. “This is too solid - on a table with leaves, together the three of us make the whole thing seem to rock. And Christopher does this bit sometimes where he coughs up ectoplasm - he didn’t want to tonight; it’s hard on his throat, and he’s already fighting a cold.”

“I am glad his ill health spared us the ectoplasm.”

Her eyes gathered trace of amusement. “I will pass along your feelings.”

“Oh - will you?”

“Yes, of course. Christopher loves getting feedback.”

He considered his impression of the figure still holding court in the other room. “Somehow I do doubt that.”

“No, truly. He does. Personally, I’d be content that we put on shows successfully and find an audience is enough of a response. But he’s ever on hunt for ways of improving the act; for that, he thinks there’s much more to learn from negative reviews than positive ones. Of course, you have to separate the wheat from the chaff – he doesn’t listen to every criticism. That wouldn’t be productive. The naysayers, the ones who rail how we’re fakes and frauds-”

“Those of outlook akin to that of myself.”

“Yes sir, if it pleases you,” she hardly spared a pause; “There’s no point in straining ourselves, trying to convince those who don’t wish to be convinced. But through listening to other critiques there’s…fine-tuning to be achieved.”

She shook her head in recollection.

“Christopher can be _tiresome_ about it. Back home we’d do the music halls, touring from one city to the next. He had to have his hands on it, if we were ever written about in any paper. He’d hunt through the reviews, looking for hint of something we could change. I’d always argue: new audiences in each town won’t know any difference! If anything, they’ll be looking forward to see the act they’ve already heard about! But he does have his ways. When he makes his mind up, it can be hard to get him to compromise.”

She sounded like a middle-class homemaker, fussing annoyance about things she never believed would change. The cook who always blackened the asparagus, the milkmaid who was often late – not something so extraordinary as finer points of parlor tricks and stagecraft.

She looked his way again, impervious to his bemusement. “You might’ve liked to see our act then. It was something impressive, if I do say so myself. With mirrors and lights, and things strung up on fishing line.”

Reluctantly drawn to interest; technical aspects appealing to part of his nature. “Yes…that does sound to be quite something.”

“We did bring some of the set-up over with us. We need the right space though, to set all up properly. So far we’ve no luck finding suitable one.”

“I suppose even the cheap theatres would be at a premium to rent in London right now, as it is still part of the Season…” He let his absent comment fade into nothing. “You have been doing this together for some time, then. Your, erm…’act’, as you have described it.”

“Yes,” she replied. “For long as we’ve been married.”

Scrooge’s inclination had been, for years, to seek out reason to dislike persons upon first meeting. It would be a falsehood to call this habit he’d fully dropped.

And the spiritualist’s entourage had given him fodder aplenty – so he’d felt. The longer they’d been in private congress however, the surety of dislike ebbed away, replaced by uncertainty he couldn’t name.

It was the feeling of being won over by one that he’d previously been comfortable in distaste for – it’d be some time before he identified it, so alien a sensation to him it was.

Her lack of pretension; her unapologetic honesty. Consistently mild yet not meek. This last revelation fully upset what remained – utterly at a loss, so thoroughly was that first swift impression destroyed.

“Y-you…” Realizing his mouth hung slightly agape. “You’re – f-forgive me, I…did not hear you being introduced as husband and wife…”

“Oh, we never are. Not that we deny it – but no one ever asks.” A soft chuckle. “That helps the act, too. It gives Christopher an extra air of _attraction_ about him…if the ladies think he’s unattached.”

She made wiggling gesture with one hand, idly tracing the curve of the table.

“But…you don’t _mind?_ ”

“What’s to mind? It’s part of the show. He knows how to talk to people. How to draw them in. He’d never go further. I think for the most nobody expects him – although, maybe he’s left a few disappointed. Apolline among them – we hired her shortly after we arrived in London; said she was an out-of-work opera dancer. She learned the tricks easily enough, but I think she’d anticipated he would have an extra use for her. Perhaps she predicted an ‘arrangement’ of sorts – or a tempestuous love triangle. She _is_ French; so she claims.”

He blinked several times, had to shake head slightly to clear it. “You _never_ worry?” he protested. “Never think that he might take advantage? Not even in the slightest?”

“No.” Unhesitant; frank. “He knows all my secrets. I trust him.”

He did not know what to say. In face of such…unassuming confidence.

Cleared throat discretely, straightening his posture; tried finding way to go on. “So. It is supposed then, I should address you as ‘Mrs. Flourish’.”

“Mrs. Floyd. I’m married under his legal name – Carl Floyd. Of course he changed it long ago, when he went into stage acting.”

“I _knew_ it.” Unable to restrain himself.

“I’m afraid he didn’t find much success with his first career. He decided to branch out. Got into mesmerism, slight-of-hand…eventually he found his way to a meeting of amateur spiritualists; and, that’s where we met.”

Bashfulness about her smile. She was undeniably fond of her husband – _proud_ of him.

This was a professional arrangement he was not unfamiliar with, as a type: one partner drew and held the spotlight as the other, invisible, did the crucial supportive work.

It would’ve never worked for him. Different as he and Marley were, they’d shared equally in the effort and credit; the spoils and the attention. And as he saw them, he was used to this type of partnership disintegrating; being a fertile ground for jealousy and spite.

If asked before this night, he’d have assumed a marriage would make such a partnership even worse.

Standing before this woman now, however…he could see it. The showman and his assistant. True, he’d not witnessed the husband’s character beyond the performer’s mask – still, he could intuit some things. It was a rare balancing act they’d the combination to pull off.

He nearly asked why she told him all this – although, this was a form of how people spoke upon introduction, wasn’t it? Giving cursory overview of their lives.

Perhaps she did not get to talk much to new people, silent partner that she was.

“And, is _your_ real name Violette then?”

“It’s Violet.” A half-shrug. “My sisters are Myrtle, Heather, and Petunia. Our mother is Lilyanne. We have an aunt Cameilla, aunt Clover, aunt Rosemary. Our grandmother’s name is Amaranth. It’s a family tradition – a garden’s worth of flowers.”

“Ah. I see. I sometimes have wondered about such families. Those with established pattern…same letter for given names, so forth. At what point do they begin to run out of names, and then what happens? Is some repetition allowed?”

“It’s been going successfully five generations that I’m aware of. Though there have been occasional repeats.”

They’d been speaking some time, he acknowledged – with the intimacy that came naturally with such uninterrupted focus. The longer it went, the more awkward he felt about his previous derision and dismissal.

Knowing something of a stranger’s history, it appeared, made it more difficult to dislike them. Perhaps he’d been unconsciously protecting himself those many years, refusing to converse with anyone.

“You know…I must thank you for your candor with me, madam. And your politeness,” he went, solemn. “I know it wasn’t particularly earned. I feel I must apologize for the manner in which I spoke to you before-”

“Oh no, not at all,” she waved her hand, cutting him off almost lightly. “Think nothing of the sort. As I said, we’re well-used to skeptics.”

“Be that as it may, I didn’t perhaps have to adopt manner so…combative.” He paused to consider, musing, “Although, those who know me might remark: on me it is certainly well-practiced. And it would be hard to imagine myself approaching such a situation any other way…”

“You’re a man with a scientific vision of things,” she offered helpfully. “A rational one.”

“I define myself as a man of reason and logic in my primary mode of thinking, yes.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Mr. Scrooge. It likely helps, now, to think of it more as a series of clever tricks, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agreed. “I can better appreciate the practice…even _effort_ that goes into what you do.”

The wording could come across as backhanded, insulting.

He appeared understood however by Violette Flourish – Violet Floyd – who inclined her head with smile of one modestly accepting a compliment.

“As I said; whatever you might have expressed, it’s nothing compared to what else has been said to us, at times. Louder and ruder. I’ve heard it all before.”

As she stated this – something flickered across her expression. An interruption to her path of thought; a misstep.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. It’s only…why I’ve just had a realization.” She spoke careful, slow. “You are indeed not remotely the first critic or skeptic I’ve encountered. Nor the first seeing fit to express what he felt to my face.”

“And?” he inquired, mystified where this could be heading.

She looked at him directly, meeting his gaze.

“I have no doubt you are a logical, straightforward man, Mr. Scrooge. You display it clearly in every line of your character. And it’s simple to understand why you would initially object to the nature of our performance. But there is one thing you did _not_ say, at any point in our discussion, that would’ve been among the first points any other man in your position has raised.”

His mind was blank. “And what is that?”

She considered him. She’d a vague smile – and in its vagueness was a shrewdness.

“That there is no such thing as ghosts.”

He froze. Startled, caught off-guard; exposed; he felt color drain from his face.

The implication formed in absence of this statement – it felt honed keen as a knife. Damning.

Denial would’ve been simplest. It should have been easy.

But it was first he’d been called upon to say it since that night – and the words wouldn’t come.

He turned sharply away, pulse pounding; lump in his throat. Sick with uncertainty.

There seemed no way out of admitting what he’d never wanted aloud; what none would ever believe.

The spiritualist’s wife watched his reaction. She was silent, as she weighed – whatever it was she was weighing.

At last she spoke. There was measured softness in her voice.

“You know, something else runs in my family. Besides our being named after flowers. What to call it…well, it’s hard to say. A condition, maybe. Or, perhaps, a talent.”

She grasped the back of one nearby chair, curled her fingers around. Gave the briefest squeeze.

“My one aunt called it a madness.”

Despite his sickly fugue Scrooge looked up reflexively; it was a word that always drew sharp attention.

Though her face was calm, a grimness to her said she knew as much.

“My aunt Hyacinth. I didn’t mention her earlier when listing names because I’ve never met her. Long before I was born she declared that madness ran in our family. That my mother and their mother and all their other sisters had it. She ran off and no one ever heard or saw of her after.

“Grandmammy said she’d a cousin like that, too. Who thought the rest of the women in the family were odd, and never did get along with them. Soon as she was old enough, she left. Joined a convent far away from home, and never sent any letters. Never replied to any of the letters they sent her either. Grandmammy said it made them sad for awhile, but they had to accept it. It seems there’s one born in every generation not quite like the rest; and she almost always leaves.”

The spiritualist’s wife held chin tilted down towards the floor. But her eyes looked up, at Scrooge; at him and also past him.

As if she saw so clearly, her vision went straight through.

“I couldn’t say that I blame them. It’s difficult. When your mother, your aunts, your elder cousins, your oldest sisters…everyone in your family, it seems, knows something you don’t. Talks about something that you can’t understand. What sensible explanation would you come to? That everyone in your family must be mad, or that they’re all lying.”

She lifted her head, serious.

“But I was only a year older than Petunia – we slept in the same bed. When she woke in the night, hearing things I couldn’t…when she told me what she’d started to see…I believed her. I knew my sister. I knew she was no liar.”

He understood what she was saying. That he understood _frightened_ him; more than he could’ve beforehand imagined.

A familiar feeling – uncovering _proof_ of that other reality. That what should’ve been impossible was very real.

“I…” he stammered, unable to catch his breath.

Perhaps he should have felt glad, eager for this. What were the odds; the likelihood of this connection? Would he have answers to some questions still plaguing him, try as he might not to think of them?

But it was so shocking, he was more apprehensive than anything to speak it aloud. To have it confirmed by another soul.

“I…think it sounds as if…as if you are trying to say…”

“The women in my family have the ability to see spirits.” That she could state it so factually made him feverish. “It seems to go back as far as anyone can remember. I was born without the gift, but that doesn’t mean I believe in it any less. I know that there are things in the world beyond what most know of. I know that spirits are real.”

She remained calm, confident. And by comparison that made him feel…small. Like he would squirm from his skin; like back when he was a boy, pinned unwillingly to the spot by some examination.

He breathed shallowly, staring at wall of the parlor so he didn’t meet her eyes.

“It’s said to run in some families. Being attuned to certain things. It’s passed through generations: mother to daughter, blood to blood. A sort of secret knowledge.”

Coldness enveloped him, like sudden exhale of winter wind wrapping around. Words in his memory that he would never forget.

_‘I am a woman, and I have the power to summon such spirits…and I fucking will.’_

Gazing into nothingness his eyes widened hopeless fraction with the thought.

Could it be – could that explain…?

Did that explain what happened between him and Mary Cratchit?

But, no; he did not deserve for that to be answered. He would always wonder, but he would never know. _That_ fate, he’d accepted.

Still, there were other things nagging he could not make himself ignore.

His gaze slid warily over her direction. “Only women?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “It’s only women who are born with the sight. It passes men in the family by; none ever seem to inherit it.”

He breathed out the quietest sigh; nearly silent.

“However. Sometimes men do end up with the ability to see spirits. Rare, but not unheard of.”

His heart pounded again. “If…if men cannot be born with it, then how do they come to be thus?”

Her mouth twisted thoughtfully. “That’s harder to say. Typically, it seems they’ve some accident; or an extreme illness maybe. A near-brush with something, that leaves them-”

“Marked,” he finished hoarsely.

She didn’t say anything, or even nod.

She did not have to.

After a moment, he felt he had to go on. “How do they…do you know what happens to such men? Is your husband-”

“Oh, no!” Distracted flutter of a laugh. “Christopher has never seen anything like that in his life. He didn’t know if he even believed in ghosts, beforehand. He always says he’s never prepared to rule anything out.”

Her tone shifted.

“As we grew closer though, I came to tell him…why I was so interested in spirits. What I know about them. And he believed me.”

Her gentle, carefully-chosen words spoke their own volumes. What must she have felt, to be willing to take that risk?

She had said that she trusted her husband. That he knew all her secrets.

Another powerful reminder: what bonds could be formed, between two people – so long as there was trust.

Trust: a commodity that held no value in currency, yet was among most valuable things in the world.

“To address your question though,” she backtracked; “I’m afraid that answer isn’t always so cheerful. Such men aren’t able to accept, or understand, what has happened. To live with what they must experience.”

This time he couldn’t bear to finish the details aloud, though again he understood too clearly. No doubt they went mad – or spent the rest of their existence thinking they were.

What had he thought, when first he saw Marley? When he was dragged through other visitations and visions? He’d made as many rational excuses as he could – and truth was, madness _was_ a more rational explanation than spirits.

But madness would not have touched his heart as it did. Madness would not have healed such old scars; it would have only exacerbated them.

And madness would not have given him the awareness it did – would not have left him burdened with such gravity.

He shut his eyes, willing unhappy thoughts to settle.

“Do you know…” He hesitated. “Are you aware, of there being any tale…is there any way to _remove_ such a condition?”

Shameful to ask, maybe; but he felt he had to.

He dared glance at her face. There was no reproach in her expression – but she frowned, shook her head.

“No,” she said gently. “It’s permanent.”

He sighed again, and nodded.

“All right. Thank you. You have been…charitably forthcoming.”

Was there a name for a sense existing between relief and resignation?

He turned back to where he’d abandoned his glass of wine. Glumly he reached for it, gazing into its contents; not having heart now to finish it.

It was only what he’d suspected already. But it was another thing, to know it as fact.

To know this eerie loneliness was to be forever a part of his state.

“Mr. Scrooge? Please - if I might trouble you for one further moment…”

She went to a corner of the room; retrieving a pelisse he’d missed, stashed away. Had that been what she was in here for, all along?

She rustled through, producing a card. “We’ve rented a space in London, in back of the shop of a gentleman who sells curiosities and travel books; he’s an old friend of Christopher’s. There are the directions. We’re living there now, and we use part of the space as a workshop.”

She held out the card and he took it, falteringly.

“You can stop by any time, if you like. I know Christopher would be more than happy to demonstrate some of our props and the like for you. If you still have any interest.”

“Oh…yes,” he said gradually, only now recalling some of the things they’d discussed earlier.

The contraptions that he would admit, might be intriguing to witness in action. Childlike eager curiosity lain dormant for so long once again stirred into wakefulness.

“And,” she added significantly, no less warm and earnest, “if you’re in need of someone to talk with about certain things. Things that you haven’t been able to discuss with anyone else. You are welcome to visit for that, as well.”

He stilled as he stared at the card in his hand.

He hadn’t attempted to relate his experience with anyone: partially because to do that would make it even more real. More unavoidable than it already was.

Did he _want_ that? To explore this otherworldly connection; to allow it to have more foothold?

For once in his life lay opportunity before him to gain greater knowledge, and he didn’t know that he wanted to take it.

Still…the opportunity _existed_ , now. That was more than’d been before this night.

And, he was grateful for that much.

What a curious unspooling chain of coincidence. That he should have ever been given the invitation that had brought him here; that he should have felt moved to accept it.

Otherwise he might’ve never crossed paths with those who possessed such a…connection.

And that the connection was rare, powerful enough it should make him inclined to befriending a pair of _actors_ – and Americans, at that!

Why, before today he never would have pictured it.

But if he wanted to, it was yet another aspect in his life in which he didn’t have to be alone.

Ebenezer Scrooge nodded firmly, placing the card with care into his breast pocket.

“Thank you, Mrs. Flourish.” He gave her a smile. “I promise you I will most seriously consider it.”


	19. A Coffin-Nail

_Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail._

_Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain. – Stave One: Marley’s Ghost_

The year in London remained 1844 - but, any soul who found themselves attached to the number would do well to begin resigning themselves. For that year was more than halfway over.

It was into the thick of the autumn. And autumn in London was ever a busy time. Some might say the busiest, in an eminently large city built upon the concepts of hurry and harry and bustle.

It was a busy time for the fine folks who took part in the Season, with their balls and their card parties; the taking in of shows and the wagering on races; the shopping and the presentations and the games of the marriage market. It was a busy time for poorer folks as well; with more fine people about and wanting to be quick about their business they’d to work harder to serve them. The street-sweeps with their cobblestones, the grooms with their carriages, the market-sellers with their wares. The vagrants had finished helping with harvest and come back into town; hands to lend on any street corner where there might be coin to be had.

It was a busy time for clerks, scratching away to track flurry of money that changed hands as MPs and businessmen and bankers bumped elbows, brought together over the warmth of fire at their gentlemen’s club; trying to keep all in order with the oncoming end of the year.

It was a busy time for those recently relocated, such as Miss Belle Ledford - settled into her new rooms yet still decorating; still learning the ins and outs of her new neighborhood. It was a busy time for the rarely looked-after women such as whose ranks she’d until recently belonged to, and still counted among her friends; doing their best to keep an eye on one another, and plenty a need for their work. It was a busy time for the factory girls such as she had been once, even longer ago - the sun-up to sun-down laborers sometimes spared a thought of pity for by the more fortunate, before it was distracted by a mind heading home to wine and brandy and a good supper.

It was a busy time for those in service, even young Miss Jenny O’Sullivan - for even if she did not have near so much plate to polish or any parties to tidy up after, as did many her contemporaries, she still spent many an hour chasing after the soot stains and the damp, keeping a wary eye out for any spot in the house that grew so cold enough as to let in the frost. It was a busy time for people such as those in her family, carpenters and apprentices like her father and brother, and seamstresses like her mother; the whole crowded little house, full of O’Sullivans, each a determined contributor to their industry.

It was a busy time for men such as the well-liked, ever-popular Mr. Frederick Clarkson; belonging to that unique class of whom everyone could attest was very hard at work, even if no one could say at precisely what. It was a busy time indeed for women such as the cool-headed, canny-eyed Mrs. Frederick Clarkson; observing the swells, rises and falls of the social Season - barriers of fortune and status preventing her from holding court at the center, yet still mastering and taking what advantages she could.

It was a busy time for well-bred children, such as the little Clarksons - a busy time for unemployed children, somehow. It is a mystery of children that even without any proper obligations, they still do manage to remain frightfully busy.

And yes, of course - it was a busy time of the year for one Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge.

He had his letters, his papers; long hours would he spend each day at his desk. Poring over them then as meticulously responding; drafting a missive, speaking aloud as he mused corrections and rephrasing; picking up his pen to start again. He kept tallies, in little leather-bound books with pencil. He still had ledgers of personal accounts, and private investments; he tracked them scrupulously, adjusting sums.

Retired he might have been, he remained a man of business; a man of business to his very _bone_ , there was no changing that.

But in his own way he enjoyed it; in his own, peculiar way, he always had.

However money would still be saved, scrimped, meticulously accounted - it would not be hoarded.

He’d settled upon particular concerns regarding the city’s impoverished: landing on housing, and education. Both he felt were significant matters, if provided for correctly leading to long-term improvement. Neither a small, uncomplicated undertaking - all the more reason to devote himself whole-heartedly. He had joined and looked into organizing committees; arranged for research and surveys; collected and allocated funds. He communicated and read and wrote vociferously.

They were refurbishing a set of workhouses. They were rebuilding an entire courtyard. They were arranging for new training for a set of teachers at several charity-run schools. Scrooge made himself very known to many individuals involved at all stage of things - some regarding his zeal fondly, others responding with no small amount of chagrin.

Fond as he was of the bigger picture, he found time to devote to smaller mercies. When he could he arranged for clothes, food, toys to be delivered to certain neighborhoods. Sometimes, he went himself.

He never did it for gratitude - but, on days when he could combat characteristic apprehension towards strangers, a certain form of warmth came: watching those faces change as they received the much longed-for comforts; particularly the children.

He began being recognized, out in the streets. At times it was merely a beggar, imploring him for a trifle - and he nearly always bestowed it, were he able. But others it was a gladsome look, from woman and man alike; a respectful lift of the hat, a tilt of the head, a light in the eye. A greeting called, voice raised to bestow a blessing upon him.

Scrooge responded best he could in kind; hand gripping tight his stick, with the other he raised his hat back, muttering something suitable while he kept walking, quickly.

He’d no time for contemplations, uncertainty, discomfort. He was ever on his way from one place to another. He’d much to do.

The Season was prosperous time for charity. The multitudes felt good-natured, already in habit of spending money, and parties could be held for benefit much as they could anything - barring that, one might be in enough hurry to get on with their evening plans that they’d end a discussion by opening their pocket-book.

Of course Scrooge did not do rounds asking for donations, in person or in letters; he’d have fallen into nervous collapse. He did not even join in the circuit of small parties and galas related to the effort.

But he did reap the rewards from such flurries - work, glorious work; what to do with the gathered funds. Even when not an organization he’d affiliation with, he did hear about the effort. He’d become well-known to the circle of hard-working, charitably-fixated, mixed-class society as a man who understood what to make of financial sums.

He was busy with his correspondence, and with his solicitors. And when he wasn’t busy with that - wouldn’t it be known, he was busy with something else. The Season was a time summoning activity to all things, and while remaining a man of business - he was other things as well. A man now with _interests_ ; and also, _friends_.

Thus when Scrooge wasn’t carried to and fro by ripples of the Season in one aspect, he was in another. Even in what could be deemed his leisure time he was sent all over London; and never in any state to mind.

There was a kind of industrious energy to be felt even in the quiet moments - a comforting sort of hum.

He and his assistant ran errands together, and they took in window displays, and parks. They watched urchins as they played in the street or down in the frozen mud by the Thames. They spoke of the weather, of course, and of things she read in magazines, or they both read in the papers. Sometimes - although how it came about Scrooge didn’t quite understand - they contrived to speak of nothing at all. Even if it bemused him, he nonetheless found it quite pleasant to do so.

Occasional chill of late autumn weather and jostling crowds on the pavement led to their walking close to one another; at times she’d slip her hand into the curve of his arm.

He did not hesitate, it having become so commonplace to them now; he thought nothing of it.

And when not with Belle, he was with any number of people he’d regular reason to have conversation - with which he’d developed acquaintance.

He exchanged polite letters about every fortnight with Mrs. Parker and her eldest daughter.

He and Sir Wattling sat down to share an evening’s brandy on two occasions.

His discussions with Thwaites and Hooper, one might dare to suggest, strayed into the genial. He now knew the name of Hooper’s wife, and the number of their offspring; and he’d once respectfully let Thwaites lecture him on the subject of Grecian pottery, an apparent fascination of his.

He still called upon Miss Thwaites on Tuesdays at the same hour, for the same amount of time, where they shared tea and cake and spoke on the same subjects; both relishing it deeply.

He could be found at what was now his usual tavern a few nights each week having his dinner; the man at the tap knew just what to serve him, and he was nodded to with familiarity by other patrons.

He’d not visited a certain travel shop in London, where a pair of American entertainment professionals had a workshop in the back – but he still had the direction; and from time to time, his mind strayed to it.

And of course, once a week he dined with his nephew’s family, usually on Thursdays.

But why shouldn’t he dine with them every Thursday? What’d once been odd blessing, then gone into routine, had now become – something past that, if such a thing existed. As much for their benefit as his – if his presence was unremarkable, his absence certainly wouldn’t be. It was unthinkable to have Thursday dinner without Uncle Ebenezer; it would be like setting the table without the knives, or cooking the meal without preparing that extra tureen of sauce. It made everything off-kilter the moment one sat down – indeed, created a feeling of being out of regular joint that could last the whole week.

He came, was greeted by the girl, Sarah; was politely familiar with Emilia and his own form of cheerful with Fred; and had many long hours of fascinating discourse with the children. Ricky had continued his fixation with highwaymen. Mathilde kept him up to date on her artistic endeavors. Charlotte was a font of sweet discoveries and observations.

Peter remained at school. Though when he recollected to be a good young man and send a letter home, it typically contained an anecdote for his great-uncle. Fred passed it along, dutifully reading aloud while they sat in the parlor.

“I feel as though I should apologize, Uncle, for his manners,” came amused comment from the reader, after another such report. “Peter does like to play at being the grown-up, but still he is rather bad about writing letters. One of these days I ought to tell him, if he has something he’d like to pass on to you he should send it to you himself. It’s hardly very gentlemanly, now is it.”

“On the contrary,” Scrooge observed: “Engaging another to pass along a message that could be handled otherwise. It sounds much like the conduct of a gentleman.”

“When put that way you might have the right of it.” The father shook his head, wry. “But, all the more reason then for him to cease doing so. I have provided well for my children, I think I’ve a right to say – but though I hope my son to be well-bred and proper, I’ve not raised him to be a true _gentleman_. Unless something very unexpectedly changes, he will have to work for his living one day. And I hope he’ll do so with no regret.”

There was a time when Scrooge would’ve viewed such a remark with suspicion: assuming some ulterior motive as to the question of inheritances. At present however no such notion flitted through his mind.

What he contemplated instead, was if he might make Peter a present of a fine writing set. As a gift to flatter the boy’s notions of maturity, it seemed a way to make him better student in the practice – the adulthood necessity – of regular and proper personal correspondence.

There would be opportunity enough, in a few months’ time.

This, perhaps, the most ingenious change – so subtly done Scrooge himself scarcely noticed to marvel it. For now, he thought of a _future_. Not in greatest of detail perhaps, but think of it he did.

Scrooge wasn’t a creature of optimism. Formed and cast in dust-coated iron, he’d lived his life almost entirely in the present. Outside the calculation of interest rates he never spared one thought for tomorrow. For change, for imaginative notion; for possibility.

He still was not a man of buoyant nature; but in place of unbroken sternness, something hopeful, almost quixotic; with even the hint of a smile. He took for granted there would be a future - for him, and in continuance of the changed life he’d made for himself. He made plans and laid stores by in anticipation.

And so this was Scrooge’s reality, as weeks passed further. His letters, his dinners, his meetings, his papers, his walks, his notions, his drinks. One day onto next, each full and productive and lively. Soon it was well into October – he hardly took note of that either, so content was he with everything else.

The days were pleasantly preoccupied. The hours seemed to verily fly by.

At night, no wonder he slept well – or, usually he slept well. He’d spent the past week before bedtime at last tackling that infamous work by Mistress Shelley.

As consequence he’d stayed up late more than once, book-covers gripped tightly between his knuckles, staring with fretful fascination upon words unfolding over the page; perhaps as afraid to close his eyes as he was simply mesmerized.

However, as Belle commented when she heard of his predicament, it was hard to begrudge a few hours’ sleep to a good story.

In addition to keeping up on novel-reading, he’d continued exploring possible transformation of that empty front lawn. Indeed he’d made up his mind: come the spring, he _would_ plant a garden.

He had many guidebooks and journal clippings in his possession, advising as to rate of growth for various plants; notes full of precise if varying calculations as to recommended water and direct sunlight.

He’d several concepts, half-formed, sometimes contradictory, which he would take the winter to consolidate into a true plan.

He couldn’t make up his mind to whether he preferred vegetables or flowers. He supposed it possible to have enough of each. He knew he did not want rosebushes, nor any sort of bush at all. Nothing he wouldn’t be able to tend and look after entirely by himself.

Belle, predictably, hoped there’d be many a bright color. The children were disappointed to learn there wasn’t room for something romantic out of a story-book: a grotto, or water feature. Emilia suggested growing green peas; she was given to understand nothing was so healthful as fresh peas from a garden.

Fred, it was revealed, read something once about various styles of decorative and functional trellis in a home journal. It was his instant excited fixation his uncle’s garden should have one.

He spoke so at length on the subject that Scrooge became heartily sick of the word ‘trellis’. He took to spelling it out when relating conversations to Belle, as if it were some sort of vulgarity.

It wasn’t enough to damper his enthusiasm for the project. He’d become far too determined about it. It was fixed, among a multitude of thoughts that kept buzzing in his mind from one day to the next; leaving little room for fussing or dwelling.

He rose on yet another cool October’s morning, and as he had his tea and toast was already thinking of what he wished to do that day. He’d no meetings for his projects until the next but there was a crucial letter he needed to write.

Erasmus lingered with him on the stairs, attempting to wind around his ankles. Gingerly he shooed the cat away, who responded by meowing complacent objection.

He made his way down, still in housecoat and slippers - normally he’d wash and get dressed first of all, but he’d already begun drafting the letter in his head and he wanted to get it down in ink.

The sooner it was completed, he thought, the sooner it could be sent - he desired a reply so quickly, he would not even wait to post it through the mail. He would have it carried by hand.

Upon reaching the ground floor he glanced through a window. The pavement empty, no figure lingered near the gate.

He frowned. Turning away, he went in search of his maid.

“Miss Jenny? Have you noticed Marty about anywhere? It occurs to me that I don’t believe I’ve seen him for the better part of this week. Your family lives in the neighborhood near to his, yes?”

He asked these things in distracted tone, not pausing while he approached where she’d been sweeping out a hearth to lay the morning’s fire.

He couldn’t anticipate the way she went stock still, eyes widening with what looked like apprehension. She let go her tools and slowly straightened up to face him.

“Oh... _sir._ You mean to say...that y-you don’t know? I-I thought you must have heard-”

“Whatever is the meaning of this?” he demanded. There was something foreboding about her manner. “What must I have heard?”

“I would have thought that surely, you must have heard by now, sir,” she repeated, helpless. “I...I’m so very sorry…”

 _“Miss Jenny.”_ He was short with her in his alarm. “Enough. You must make it clear to me what you are speaking of. What are you trying to say? Whatever it is, I must know.”

He must know - yet, he wished it could be avoided. He knew this feeling in the pit of his stomach; the gooseflesh rising on his skin in dread.

Whatever it was, he would not like what happened next.

His maid had to catch her breath before she continued. Because they stood out so against the pale freckles of her cheeks, he could tell her eyes misted with threat of tears.

“That boy, Marty...he died, sir. It was…a little over a week ago.”

 _‘What?’_ Scrooge went.

Or he meant to. His mouth parted. But he discovered he couldn’t make a sound.

He and his maid stared at one another. Her small frame seemed to shrink in on itself as she met his expression.

Everything felt _wrong_. Everything looked wrong. For the moment her voice seemed far away.

He pictured Marty’s bright round eyes; his smudged nose and tousled hair; dogged manner that oversized clothes and diminutive frame couldn’t detract from.

The expert way he scampered through every street, unflagging, unafraid; merrily ready, always, to seize whatever life had to offer.

But now, the boy was dead? He was…gone?

He managed, at last, to force out hoarsely, “H-how…?”

Jenny’s lips trembled as she made to answer.

“Th-they say he was hit by a train, sir. Down by the yard, where all those tracks are crossing. Either he got stuck while he was walking along, or he didn’t hear it coming. No one’s quite certain.”

Accidents happened. Tragedies happened.

There was no manner of avoiding or changing it.

This Scrooge knew well. He’d thought he stoically understood that. And the young were hardly immune from life’s uncertainties.

But there was no describing the disbelief that welled up in him now. The regret, the sorrow.

The _anger._

“Go home, Miss Jenny.” His voice was harsh for its tonelessness.

She nearly gasped in bewilderment, almost frightened.

“But...Mr. Scrooge-”

 _“Go home,”_ he rounded on her, snapping.

She barely managed one curtsy, shaking as she turned and fled.

The ground floor parlor fire could go unlit today. There was no use for any dusting.

He needed to be alone.

Once the house was empty and still of any other human company, Scrooge stalked to the nearest chair.

He collapsed into it. Leaning forward, he clutched his head tightly between his hands.

What he thought, he would not name.

What he felt was...dreadful.

A pall came over the next few days, and he hardly knew what he did.

Oh, he carried on the basic elements of his routine; he ate, he slept. He went places where he’d planned to go. He signed papers that he needed to sign.

But this was no more and no less than what his life had been for the past decades, this almost mechanical wearied existence. The color, the pleasure, the desire...had all gone.

He could not stop, however. He could not allow himself to stop. He had to find a way to keep working.

Though he struggled to recollect why he cared, or indeed he should care, about anything he’d been involved in.

There was one matter now he was able to turn to with some attention. But mainly with numbed regret, and discontent; there was little he could do.

The child of course had already been buried. What service there was, how many mourners – he could bear to ask no one.

He did wonder aside how such a child was buried: a young boy, from small impoverished family? What wake could be provided – perhaps by the efforts of kind neighbors.

Perhaps the father’s employer, or the mother’s relations, were willing to be generous in time of need. Perhaps there’d been a burial club – the poorest, he’d learned, could often manage that much.

He wished he could express his condolences. He wished he could go to the home, and convey how sorry he was. To speak of how wonderful he knew their son had been, how deprived the world was for his loss.

But the words he knew once had been spoken of him by the mother – they burned in his ears. He feared she’d not be happy to see him. He feared condolences from the likes of him would be as blight to her. His appearance would be a violation on their household, giving them no comfort to speak of. He dared not even send a note.

Instead privately, in great secrecy, he made another arrangement.

He’d paid a high sum, been firm in his instructions. It wasn’t much time later at all he stood in a small churchyard with Belle at his side.

It was a worthy place: walled in by houses, but not overrun by grass and weeds, or choked up with too much burying. A worthy place, as far as churchyards went.

Belle had on a shawl, and gloves, and a lined bonnet. She stood with hands clasped tightly; arms stiff and close to her, as if she’d rather be holding them around herself for warmth.

“It’s a lovely marker, Mr. Ebenezer,” she said softly. “It turned out very nice.”

“Yes,” he agreed, in monotone.

The marker in question was carved of dark Yorkstone in shape of a lamb kneeling, a cherubic child seated beside holding it tenderly by the muzzle. A relatively small headstone, but well-made with room enough for detail.

There was some passage of scripture, beside the child’s full name and age; an epitaph stating he’d been called home by the Lord.

Scrooge had not designed the marker. He merely hired the stone carver, had him contact the clergyman heading the parish: an anonymous party wished to donate a gravestone for commission by the family, with no objection as to the cost.

“You are quite certain,” he asked Belle, and not for the first time, “the family has no idea?”

“Yes, I promise,” she assured him, taking no offense from his insistence. “It was carefully handled. No one has any idea of your involvement.”

He drew a breath, and let it out again in a silent sigh before he responded.

“Good,” he said at last.

He looked about him at the burial grounds, dully. Though there was not much to see. One crowded churchyard in London was much the same as any other.

At least it was not that one close by Camden Town: where he’d found an inexpensive plot that he and Jacob Marley should one day share, and he once had been tormented by the sight of another grave – of another child who did not deserve to die.

At least Marty was not buried in the same ground that once threatened to receive young Tim. He was spared the cruelty of that.

That being so, however; to have one boy be saved – only for another to be plucked, in the same time of life and another tragic accident. It was difficult not to feel that fate mocked him.

He looked around again, only as he did so realizing what he was actually looking for.

But the ghost of Jacob Marley was not there - and neither was any other.

There were less spirits in London than many a historian would claim. Still over the months, his travels, he did manage to find them. It was usually a glimpse, a pale figure from corner of his vision – most seemed to take no notice of him, perhaps not even wish to be seen.

Many were faded, silent, hardly seeming like a person so much as a vanishing memory. They gazed at him in confusion, in defiance, in shyness.

He still did not understand what made them spirits, what would cause one to linger more than another. There seemed no pattern to it.

He saw that wealthy neighborhoods were as likely to produce ghosts as the poor ones were. He saw all varying types of individual, all ages. Though it was the children that were the hardest to witness, when they appeared.

Despite that, he realized – ever since the day he heard of Marty’s death, he _had_ been looking.

But he never found the ghost of a familiar errand boy, hanging about his gate. He never glimpsed it trotting along through the streets. The one spirit he might have longed to see, to ask questions, to attempt one last conversation; a chance at saying goodbye – he was nowhere to be found.

Here he was at Marty’s graveside, and still he was not there.

He kept listening for the sound of a voice – a commanding chirrup. One he would recognize anywhere.

He listened, but he never heard it.

Without another word Scrooge turned and left the churchyard.

He knew, somehow, that Belle turned as he strode away and watched. She did not speak however; she did not move after him.

He was too lost to appreciate that she knew to let him be left alone.

His house seemed dark, when he reached it. And quiet. It was for no discernable reason, and he was too distracted, too erratic in his focus to give the matter further thought.

He hung up his hat, set aside his stick and gloves, changed out of his coat.

He did not light a candle or build a fire. He climbed the stairs. The creaks of his tread echoed.

On the uppermost floor, he paced his rooms. Walking through, wandering in circles.

Finally, wearied, breath coming in short rough pulls past his ears, he stopped in his bedchamber.

Eyes darting about, his gaze landed where the copy of _Frankenstein_ still laid sideways on the table beside his bed.

He picked it up, flipping through the pages. He stopped at random, sight falling onto a passage:

_“Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb!”_

These despairing words, written as part of a tale that’d recently given him thoughtless enjoyment – moved him, yes, but how differently then they resonated…

He’d endured loss before – but that was under his old philosophy. When he expected the worst of life, and was consistently rewarded.

Now…he’d changed. He _tried._ He sought out the best, in himself and everything around him. He’d thought he could make life better.

And yet the worst still happened. There was no difference.

Intense emotion again began to well. A dark blackness – a bleakness threatened to swallow him entirely.

But what was the point of fighting? Why resist?

Everything, every piece and part of life, was so utterly _futile_.

He glanced at the page again; at those terrible words that seemed to taunt him.

Teeth clenched, expression twisted into a glower, he lifted the book he held, throwing it hard as he could at the wall of his bedroom.

It fell with a clatter, spine bent, pages damaged.

Ebenezer Scrooge left it there. He did not care enough to go after it.


End file.
